An Ill Wind
by J0
Summary: Ch16 “What happened to you, Daddy? What did he do to you?” He bit his lip, lowered his eyes, tried to think. Maureen had figured it out for herself, but Kathleen was a bit childish for her age, and she wouldn’t be able to cope with the truth.
1. Devastation

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**OOO**_

_**Chapter One**_  
_**Devastation**_

OOO

_Residence of Muriel Faringo_  
_154 Clinton St., Manhattan_  
_9:47 P.M., November 18, 2005_

He came to and knew he was in trouble. The house was quiet, far too quiet, and he knew he was alone.

His wrists were throbbing and his hands were numb from being cuffed around the heavy bottom post of the banister, for how long he didn't know. He tried unsuccessfully a couple of times to reach the key in his pocket, and then he remembered that it had been taken along with his car keys and his gun.

He looked to his right and left. His cell phone lay shattered against the baseboard, but the house phone wasn't too far away. If he could kick it out of its cradle he might be able dial his partner. Not wanting to waste any more of his rapidly waning energy, he followed the cord back to the outlet with his eyes and discovered that it had been ripped out of the wall.

He smelled blood, lots of it, and remembering what he had seen when he first walked in, he could only imagine the worst.

No one at work would miss him for four days, except maybe his partner if she decided to check up on him. He had taken Friday and Monday off this weekend and volunteered to work on Thanksgiving so that he didn't have to face the holiday alone for the second year in a row. There had been no one at home for a long time to notice if he didn't come back at some ungodly hour, and unless Olivia started worrying about his state of mind, nobody would bother looking for him until Tuesday.

He could see only one way to get free. Fiddling with the cuffs, he discovered that the left one was slightly looser than the right. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand snugly around his left wrist, hoping to prevent the cuff from turning at an angle and digging into his flesh. Taking a few deep breaths to steel himself, ignoring the knifing pain from bruised and battered ribs, he willed his left hand to relax and began a strong, steady pull.

He wished he could just yank hard and free himself, but he knew it didn't work that way. It was going to take unrelenting pressure and probably a couple of broken bones to get out of the cuffs. Despite his best effort to prevent it, he felt the metal biting into the fleshy parts of his hand, and he blinked back the tears that stung his eyes.

He felt the snap more than heard it, and when his left hand flew free he lost his balance. As his right arm slid under the bottom rail he scraped the top of his forearm, banged his elbow on the step, and bruised his shoulder and bicep against the banister. For one blinding moment, even his tortured left hand was forgotten as he whacked his funny bone on a sharp corner. Then that fleeting anguish left him and his other injuries assailed him in concert, each of them competing for his attention by suddenly growing exponentially more excruciating.

Curses muffled his screams as he fought back the nausea that resulted from the sensory overload. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision as stars of agony danced before his eyes, he cradled his injured hand to his chest. In his pocket he found a handkerchief and awkwardly tied it to cover the wounds the cuff had gouged into his flesh. He wasn't bleeding badly, but he figured he ought to do what he could to treat his injuries. He didn't know if his left thumb was broken or dislocated, but it hurt so much he couldn't bear to move any of his fingers and it overshadowed any pain he might have felt from the bleeding wounds. He tried to think what to do about the abrasions on his forearm, but when nothing came to him immediately he turned his attention to more pressing matters.

It was difficult to pull his shorts up with one hand, but he managed and slowly turned to face the room, stepping gingerly as he became aware of a sharp pain in his right ankle. What he saw was exactly what he expected, but he still felt the bile rising in his throat and had to hobble over to a corner where he could be sick without interfering with the forensic evidence. The pain of his damaged ribs made the nausea worse, and he had to vomit twice.

Finally catching his breath, he turned and looked again, considering his options. No phone. His car was probably gone, so he had no radio. But his partner lived only a few blocks away. He hated to leave the scene unsecured, but he could think of nothing else to do. He found his trousers slung over the arm of a chair, stumbled back to the banister, and leaned against it while he put them on, but he couldn't locate his socks or shoes. Terrified that his attacker might come back, he finally gave up the search and staggered out onto the front stoop, surprised to find that it had grown dark. He pulled the front door securely shut behind him, and began his hobbling, barefooted march to his partner's apartment.

He was almost halfway to his destination when he realized that he was cold. His overcoat had been taken from him, and his thin suit jacket was doing little to protect him from the raw November wind. The cold on his bare feet was creeping up his legs and making him ache all the way to his knees. He wavered a moment as he considered returning to look for his coat, but he had come four blocks and had only six to go. Going back now and getting to this point again would require more walking than just finishing his journey, and he wasn't sure his throbbing ankle would take the strain. With a miserable sob, he pressed on, head down against the wind.

_Olivia Benson's Apartment_ _Downtown Manhattan_

_10:42 P.M. November 18, 2005_

Olivia sat on the sofa with her legs curled up under her, wearing her favorite navy blue tracksuit. A glass of expensive, at least for her, red wine was in easy reach, and a bluesy jazz CD played softly from the sound system in the corner. She was reading a light, predictable romance novel, her one guilty pleasure. It was precisely the kind of ridiculous fluff that John Munch would berate as "the frustrated modern housewife's ludicrous foray into a fantasy world of heaving bosoms and throbbing loins, where rape and unprotected sex at _best_ have no consequences whatsoever and at _worst_ lead by some convoluted path to a perversely happy ending."

She laughed to herself, actually hearing his voice in her head, indignant and a little whiny, certainly superior, and if she told him that she read such novels precisely _for_ the pure escapism, she knew he would just shrug and say, "Who am I to judge? If you want to read that garbage, by all means, be my guest. The First Amendment guarantees you that right, but it doesn't have a minimum standard of quality."

A particularly strong gust of cold November wind rattled the glass in the single-pane windows of the old apartment building, and Olivia shuddered. She wasn't particularly cold, but the noise made her pull the chenille throw off the back of the couch and drape it over her lap. She felt bad for Munch and Fin, who had probably been out to at least one crime scene by now, but she was glad she and Elliot weren't on call this evening.

She wasn't sure what her partner planned to do with his extra days off, other than spend some time with his kids. She hoped he would spend some time with his wife, too, if Kathy would let him. She wished Elliot hadn't volunteered to work on Thanksgiving, but she understood why he had. It would be easier to spend the holiday at work trying to ease some victim's suffering than at home alone trying to endure his own.

Olivia frowned and took a swallow of wine. A year ago, she had been surprised to find out Kathy had taken the children and moved back to her mom's house after twenty years of marriage, but looking back now she realized she had seen it coming. At the time she'd been more than a little hurt that Elliot hadn't told her himself, but instead let her find out when a rape victim had made harassment allegations against him. It was typical of Elliot to keep things to himself, though, and Olivia knew it had a lot to do with why his wife had left him.

Kathy Stabler was an incredibly nurturing woman. An amazing mother to four active kids, she was involved in the P.T.A. and in her church, and she had tried her best to be a good wife to her husband. She wanted to be his helpmate and his source of strength. The problem was that Elliot Stabler was a hard man to nurture. He didn't accept help graciously and would die before admitting weakness, so he had little use for what his wife had to offer. Instead, he would bottle up everything he saw and did at work, all the pain and suffering he witnessed, all the misery and grief it caused him, and he would go home to his family at the end of each day. Then, while he was working hard to be a good dad and husband, those wretched feelings would turn into a simmering, frustrated anger that he could never quite get rid of. In trying to protect Kathy and his kids from the horrors he saw every day, Elliot had shut them out. Eventually, Kathy had become the person who put leftovers in the fridge for him to heat up when he came home at night, and Kathleen, Dickie, and Elizabeth were simply the little people who ran up the electric bill, generated heaps of dirty laundry, and left their clutter all over the house. Maureen, his oldest daughter, who had gone off to college, was now little more than a stranger whose life occasionally intersected with his.

Before Kathy had moved out, Olivia knew her partner had gone to a priest for counseling, but she also knew he had just been going through the motions, doing what he was supposed to do to try and save his marriage. Kathy was a shrewd woman, though, and Elliot's charade hadn't washed with her. She'd wanted a real effort out of him, a real change, and at the time he hadn't been able or willing to make one. After Kathy walked out, Elliot had begun a slow descent into rage, depression, and reckless disregard for procedure and his own personal safety that bordered on self-destruction. More than once in the past year, his long-standing friendship with Captain Cragen had been the only thing that prevented him from losing his job and his pension.

Then, on the day that he'd beaten the living hell out of Pete Breslin, his former radio car partner, he had frightened himself with the realization that he would have killed the man with his bare hands if other cops hadn't arrived to pull him off. Knowing he had finally hit bottom, desperate to save his sanity, and with nowhere else to go, he had dropped himself on Rebecca Hendrix's doorstep and pleaded for help. Over the past few weeks, he had been working hard with the psychiatrist to figure out why he was so damned angry all the time. Since he had been seeing her for counseling he had seemed less on edge and more relaxed, and though no one in the squad ever mentioned it, they all tacitly agreed that it was a welcomed change.

Olivia knew it hadn't been easy for Elliot to go to Rebecca, and she could always tell when they'd had a difficult session by his demeanor when he came in to work. She never questioned him about what he and Rebecca discussed, knowing he would tell her if he had something he wanted to share. She often wished she could do more to help her partner, but she knew he had to do all of the hard work himself. She wanted to tell him that she could see his efforts paying off and that she was proud of him for having the courage to deal with his troubles, but she was afraid that would embarrass him, maybe even enough to stop seeing the shrink. So, she never told him that he was returning to the kind and compassionate man he had been when they first met, and she didn't mention that his barely contained rage, a part of his nature which had gotten him into trouble so often, wasn't boiling just beneath the surface all the time any more. Instead, she encouraged him with a welcoming smile and a cup of coffee every day when he came to work and silently accepted the changes that she saw taking place.

She thought about going in to the office on Thanksgiving and taking Elliot a turkey sandwich. It hadn't been that long since her mom had died, and she wasn't looking forward to spending the day by herself either. But she rejected the idea almost immediately, knowing that her partner would perceive it as her checking up on him. She hoped he had at least scheduled some extra appointments with Rebecca to help him through the holidays, and she wondered if and when she should look in on him during his long weekend.

She knew, no matter how bad things got, he wouldn't eat his gun because suicide was a sin and he was a devout Catholic. However, this time of the year was stressful even for people who weren't as troubled as her partner, and despite the changes that were coming out of his work with Rebecca, she could still imagine him losing his cool with some idiot at the local grocery store and getting into a conflict that could destroy his career.

With a reluctant sigh, she decided she'd leave him alone. He hadn't wanted her help a year ago, hadn't even told her that his wife had left him, and she knew he would rebuff her now if she were to offer any kind of moral support. He had never wanted to talk with her about his situation at home, and he had never wanted to discuss his work with his wife, either. As much as she loved him, Olivia knew that she couldn't save Elliot from himself.

Olivia still hoped the Stablers could save their marriage. She knew she was being naïve, but she had to believe that if Elliot could just learn to talk to his wife, if he could learn how to share his feelings with her the way Kathy needed him to, they might have a chance to get back together. She'd never mentioned it to anyone, but Elliot and Kathy had always been her heroes in a way.

High school sweethearts, the football player and the cheerleader had accidentally gotten pregnant while still in their teens. A few weeks after their senior prom, they had decided to "do the right thing" and get married as soon as they graduated high school. That marriage, as ill-timed and poorly planned as it had been, had survived Elliot's service in the Marines, his even more stressful return to civilian life, some hard times when he was out of work transitioning between the Marines and the NYPD, and three more children. Olivia didn't think Elliot could ever understand how much it hurt her to see his family coming apart after all this time, and not just because she had to watch her friend and partner suffer. Until last year, his nuclear family had been her proof that decent, hardworking people could get it right if they just loved each other and their kids enough to do what was necessary to make things work. They had been her hope that someday, maybe she could have a real relationship and a real home and family of her own. Now, that dream was all but lost.

Olivia sighed and opened her book again. If the Stablers couldn't fix things, at least she would still have her trashy romance novels.

She scanned the pages quickly, reading every other line most of the time, just enough to have some rudimentary grasp of the plot, and slowing down only when she came to the sexy parts. After all, this wasn't the kind of book one read for the story. She shook her head when she heard Munch's voice again, ". . . socially acceptable porn for housewives . . ." and paused for a sip of her wine.

" . . . sitting on the couch eating bonbons and getting off on some hapless innocent's sexual misadventures in Elizabethan England while their hardworking soon-to-be ex-husbands are out earning a living so they can blow it on . . ."

"Oh, shut _up_, John," she muttered to the no longer amusing voice in her head.

The buzzer from the outside door sounded, its harsh noise in the quiet causing her to jump. A few drops of the wine splashed onto her top, and she frowned at them, but decided that no one would ever notice after she'd washed it. That was the nice thing about wearing dark colors, besides the fact that they made her look slimmer.

Her caller buzzed again and she put her wine down muttering, "All right, all right. I'm coming."

She shoved the cheap paperback behind a sofa cushion, hiding her dirty little secret in case the visitor was someone she wanted to invite in, and crossed the apartment to the intercom.

"Yes?" she said as she pressed the talk button.

"Liv . . . help me."

"Elliot?" Her heart was in her throat. The voice had sounded like her partner, but she wasn't sure, and it wouldn't be the first time some perv from one of her cases had found her home address and come over to bother her.

"Please."

She took a deep breath and grabbed her coat, keys, phone, and gun. If it was someone in need of help, she could make a call, and if it was someone looking to cause trouble, she could deal with that, too.

_An Ill Wind_

He couldn't stand up any more. He just couldn't do it. "Please," he moaned into the speaker and let himself slip down the wall to the concrete step. He closed his eyes and hoped she would come soon.

"Elliot?"

He opened his eyes a little and looked in the direction of her voice.

"Elliot! My god!" She sat down beside him and gently turned his head so she could get a better look at him. He had two black eyes, a bloody nose and lip, and a lump the size of Manhattan on his head. He met her gaze just for a moment, and then let his chin drop to his chest again.

"Elliot, what happened?" she demanded gently. As she spoke, she flipped her cell phone open.

"Have Dispatch send someone to 154 Clinton Street. She's dead."

"Clinton you said? Here, in my neighborhood?" From his condition, it was clear he couldn't have reached her building from any further away, but she was so shocked to see him in such a state that she didn't realize the answer was obvious.

Elliot nodded, and Olivia dialed 911, not bothering to ask what an off-duty SVU detective had been doing at the scene of a homicide. When the operator answered, she identified herself, reported the crime, and gave the address.

"Please be advised, I am not on-scene, nor will I be. Someone . . . in the neighborhood notified me, and he needs medical attention." She requested an ambulance at her own address and closed her phone.

"Elliot, can you tell me what happened?" Liv asked as she threw her coat around his shoulders.

"Muriel Faringo called me. Roger DeVane is out on parole. I came over, just to reassure her, you know, and DeVane was already there."

"Muriel Faringo? Roger DeVane? I'm sorry, El, I don't know those names."

"It was twelve years ago, one of my first SVU cases."

"Ok. Then what happened?"

"DeVane was waiting for me. Clubbed me with something . . ." He wavered a moment as if searching for the words to continue. "He . . ." A deep breath followed and then the softly whispered words, "he assaulted me."

Suddenly taking in the rumpled clothes, the unbuckled belt, the handcuffs hanging from her partner's wrist, the hunched posture, and the lack of eye contact, Olivia felt new alarm bells go off in her head. Her partner hadn't just been beaten up.

"Elliot," she said gently, praying she was wrong, "are you saying he sexually assaulted you?"

There was a long moment when nothing seemed to move, not even the wind, then he nodded slightly, just the once. For a moment, looked like he was going to cry.

Carefully, she put an arm around his shoulders, feeling gratified that he didn't pull away, and said, "You're safe now, Elliot, and the ambulance is coming. We'll take you to the hospital and have you checked out."

"NO!" he yelled and tried to pull away. "No! I don't want anyone to know. Please."

He was totally spent, shivering in the cold, too weak to even stand. "Hey, hey, come on, you're safe now, El," Olivia spoke as gently and soothingly as she could. "You know how it works. You don't have to press charges. You don't even have to report what he did, but you have to have a medical exam at least. You have to make sure you don't have any injuries that require attention."

"I'm ok, Liv, trust me."

"Elliot, you just walked ten blocks to have me call in a homicide when you could have gone next door and borrowed a phone," she pointed out to him. "You're in shock, and I don't think you're capable of exercising very good judgment right now. You need to see a doctor, El, and you know that." She kept her voice soft and singsong, but she was determined that if nothing else he was going to be examined and have his injuries treated.

After a moment, he nodded, then looked at her, his normally bright blue eyes shadowed and pleading. "Will you go with me?"

She smiled encouragingly. "Of course I will."

As they waited for the ambulance to arrive, she fished the keys out of her jacket and unlocked the handcuff from his right wrist, gave him a tissue to dab at the blood on his lip and nose, and did everything she could to give him a quiet few minutes before his next ordeal began.

_An Ill Wind_

"Jesus," Officer Benito "Benny" Rodriguez gasped as he stepped into the apartment at 154 Clinton Street.

"He ain't had nothin' to do with this," his partner, Wanda Blackwell, whispered.

The victim appeared to be in her mid twenties. She was stark naked, her legs spread obscenely wide and her feet tied to the back legs of the chair on which she sat. Dozens of thin red welts on her breasts and abdomen indicated that she had been whipped with something, and large purple bruises on her thighs made it clear what else had been done to her before her throat had been slit.

"Let's check it out," Wanda softly.

First, they moved through the apartment making sure all was clear and that the killer wasn't lying in wait for them somewhere. Then they met again in the front room where they radioed Dispatch to send a CSU, an ME, and someone from homicide before beginning their initial search for the murder weapon and any other evidence.

"Hey, Benny!" Wanda called after about minute, "Come have a look at this."

"Whatcha got?" Benny asked as he came to join her over by the love seat.

"Man's coat. ID's still in the pocket." She flipped it open.

"Detective Elliot Stabler, Manhattan SVU," Benny read over her shoulder. Glancing back at the victim, he wondered aloud, "D'ya think one of the sex police finally snapped?"

"I dunno," Wanda replied, "but he's sure as hell gonna have some explainin' to do."

_Examination Room_

_St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan_

_3:22 A.M., November 19, 2005_

"Ok, you all right?" Olivia asked as she helped her partner up on to the examining table. The answer to the question was obvious, but she needed to know if he was able to continue. He nodded. Still holding his right hand, surprised at how cold it was, she helped him ease himself back against the cushioned top. Cracked ribs and inflatable splints on his left arm and right ankle made his movements awkward. He winced as he reclined, probably because his ribs were complaining, but she didn't say anything more, trusting him to speak up if he was too uncomfortable.

When they'd gotten to the hospital, she'd stayed close, and tried to be supportive. She'd completed the admission forms for him, talked to him from the control room while his ankle, hand, and ribs were x-rayed, and walked along beside his wheelchair when they moved him from one room to another to do a CT scan. As the medical exam wound down, she'd gently coaxed him into asking for a rape exam. When he consented, she'd offered to call Melinda Warner to do the evidence collection, but he begged her not to contact the ME. Warner was a friend as well as a colleague, and he didn't think he could ever face her again after she'd asked him the questions and performed the procedures that were part of the standard rape kit. Understanding his concern, Olivia had offered to wait in the hall, but he pleaded with her to stay.

"I need you here, Olivia," he had tried to explain, "but _just_ you."

She'd nodded, feeling honored and deeply moved by the trust he was showing her, and offered a small, supportive smile. She spent the next couple of hours holding his good hand while they waited for the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner to arrive; staying where he could see her, but with her eyes averted, as he stood on the catch papers to strip and bagged his clothes for evidence; and reminding him every chance she got that he was safe now. Once all the evidence bags had been sealed, she moved behind the screen and helped him put on the paper-thin gown, securely tying it in back for him and making sure she didn't leave a vent that exposed his bottom. She'd kept a reassuring hand on his shoulder as the phlebotomist had drawn blood to check for drugs and alcohol, and she'd held his hand again as the SANE had photographed his injuries, combed and plucked his pubic hair, and taken hair samples, oral and nasal swabs, and nail scrapings.

Now they were at the worst part of the process.

"Elliot," the SANE asked, "Could you turn over on your left side for me?"

Olivia was grateful to the woman for the compassion and patience she had shown. She knew that with a man, this last part usually took place with the victim bent over the table, but considering her partner's injuries, the SANE had opted to have him lie down. Somehow, Olivia felt this was a slightly more dignified approach.

"Wait," Elliot said once the SANE had draped him with a sheet and was about begin the rectal examination. Looking up at Olivia he said, "Turn around, Liv."

She frowned in confusion, and he explained, "I don't want you to leave, but I don't want you to watch, either."

"Oh, ok." There didn't seem to be anything more to say, so she turned away, still holding his hand.

"All right, Elliot, I'm going to start now," the SANE warned him. "It's going to be cold and probably uncomfortable, but you need to tell me if it hurts, understand?"

"Yeah, ok," he grunted.

Apart from their brief conversation on the stoop in front of her building, Olivia hadn't asked him any questions about the assault, but she had heard all of his answers to the SANE's questions. She knew this humiliating procedure was necessary to check for abrasions, possible colon perforation, foreign objects and debris, and to obtain a sample of his attacker's DNA, if he'd left any. Olivia struggled to contain her tears as she listened to her partner's reactions to the intrusive examination and felt his grip tighten on her hand.

"Ok, all done," the SANE said after a few eternal minutes.

Olivia could feel the shudder pass through her partner's body. She took a moment to compose herself and turned toward him again. Then she helped adjust the table so that Elliot was now sitting up.

"I want PEP," Elliot told the SANE.

"Post-exposure prophylaxis is usually indicated only when the assailant is known to have HIV," she said with a frown.

"He's . . . a convicted child molester who was just released from prison this week. I'd . . . I'd say the odds are good," he told her.

The SANE frowned again and made some notes on her chart. "Ok, I'll make sure you get the meds. I'd also like to give you a shot of penicillin to protect you against gonorrhea and syphilis."

"Then can I go home?"

Olivia heard the quaver in his voice, and knew he wasn't equipped to cope with an empty house right now. Staying at her place wasn't an option, either, because she knew he was just too damned proud to lean on her that way. Since Elliot was looking at the SANE and not at her, she shook her head no. The woman's eyes lit with understanding, and she said, "That's not my call to make, Elliot, but your x-rays have to be back by now. I'm sure a doctor will be in to see you soon and you can discuss it with him, ok?"

Elliot nodded. He wasn't pleased with the response, but he wasn't ready to push it, either. The SANE left and it was up to Olivia to look after her partner again.

"You hanging in there?" she asked. They had been at the hospital for almost five hours, and he had held up quite well, but she thought she ought to ask, just to be sure.

In a tight voice, he responded, "Barely."

As she watched, his face crumpled into a mask of pain and humiliation. She thought the tears would surely come now, so she hooked the stool that the SANE had been using with her foot and wheeled it over to where she could sit on it. Now at his eye level, she reached up and gently rested a hand on his shoulder, ready to pull him into a hug or brush his tears away if that's what he needed.

"I never thought . . ." he began, and stopped when he ran out of words. After a moment he burst out, "This wasn't supposed to happen to me!" He pounded the exam table with his good hand, and his expression contorted in physical and emotional pain, but he refused to let the tears fall.

"I know, El. It shouldn't happen to anyone, ever, but you're going to get through this," she promised. "You're safe now, and I'm going to be here for you as long as you need me."

The door to the exam room banged open making them both jump. Elliot groaned in pain as his various injuries protested.

"Elliot Stabler?"

"Yeah, can you give us a minute?" Olivia snapped over her shoulder at the intruder.

"Oh, uh, sure. Sorry."

It was more like five minutes before they were disturbed again, and in that time Olivia had managed to calm her partner considerably. This time, there was a knock at the door, and when the doctor came in, he was extremely apologetic.

"I'm Doctor Peter Dombrowski," the tall young man said. "I'm so sorry I startled you earlier, Mr. Stabler. Would you prefer that I call you Elliot or Mr. Stabler?"

"Elliot is fine. Where is the other doctor . . . The woman who saw me when I first came in?"

"She went off duty about three hours ago, but I've read her notes and seen your x-rays and test results. You can call me Peter if you like, or I can find another female doctor if that would make you more comfortable."

At a fit and athletic six feet, two inches tall, Peter knew he was physically imposing. According to the chart he held in his hands, his patient wasn't any shorter, and judging but the amount of lean muscle mass he obviously carried, the guy had to be considerably stronger. Peter couldn't believe a guy like that could be the victim of a sexual assault, but whatever had happened, he'd clearly been traumatized, and Peter would do whatever he could to make the poor man more comfortable.

"No," Elliot said hesitantly, "uh, you can stay."

Peter smiled and looked to Olivia, "And you are?"

"Olivia Benson. I'm . . . a friend," she said, getting up from the stool on which she was sitting and moving it over toward the physician.

He nodded in acknowledgement as he took the seat and asked, "Do you want Olivia to stay, Elliot?"

Elliot swallowed hard and said, "Yes, please."

"Ok, I just want to talk with you a minute, and then we'll decide together what kind of treatment you need, all right?" When he got a silent nod, he continued. "First, how are you feeling?"

After a moment's thought, Elliot responded with surprising honesty. "My ankle is throbbing and my hand is killing me. It hurts to breathe and I have a headache."

Peter nodded, pulled out a penlight, and moved forward. Elliot cowered back against Olivia, and she gave his uninjured hand an encouraging squeeze.

"I just want to check how your eyes respond to the light, Elliot," the doctor informed him, and moved closer again. After flashing the light in his patient's eyes and grunting softly to himself, Peter sat back and said, "Your x-rays show a hairline fracture of one of the tarsal bones in your ankle. The air cast will effectively stabilize that. You've dislocated your thumb, broken two metacarpal bones, and torn some ligaments in your hand. That's going to take surgery to repair, but I've consulted with an orthopedic surgeon, and she says that, unless the pain is just unbearable, she'd recommend waiting until the swelling goes down."

Peter paused, and after a moment, Elliot realized he was expected to respond, "I can live with it for a while, but some kind of pain reliever would help a lot."

Checking the chart, the young physician asked in surprise, "You mean you've been here for five hours and they haven't given you anything yet?"

Elliot shook his head and said, "I haven't had any medicine, or even a drink of water."

"The other doctor didn't want to give him any pain medication until his tests results were back in case he had a brain injury," Olivia broke in, "and eating and drinking can interfere with evidence collection."

Scribbling furiously on the chart, Peter said, "We've been slammed tonight, but this is inexcusable. I'm going to take care of it right now. I'm so sorry." Pushing off with his feet as he continued to write, he rolled the stool he was sitting on across the floor to the door, swung it open, and called into the hall, "I need a nurse, right now!"

He held a short conversation in the hall and then rolled himself back to Elliot and Olivia. "Someone will be back shortly with a snack and something to make you more comfortable."

Elliot sighed gratefully. "Thank you."

Peter nodded and said, "You're welcome. I'm sorry no one took care of that sooner."

He glanced down at the chart again. "Your nose is broken, but with the proper precautions, it shouldn't require any surgery to heal properly, and, I don't know if you realized it, but they had a specialist check your eyes when you first came in, and there was no indication of a detached retina or retinal bleeding," he said. "Have you noticed any cloudy or blurred vision, unusual blind spots, or any objects floating across your field of view?"

Elliot shook his head no, and Peter continued. "Then it is safe to assume that your vision is fine. I know your cracked ribs are uncomfortable, but there's no sign of any significant soft tissue injury or internal bleeding. The cuts and abrasions on your feet are all superficial. My only real concern is that knot on your head."

"So, does that mean I can go home?" Elliot pleaded, and again Olivia heard the fear in his voice.

"Now you know they usually keep people in overnight when they get whacked on the head," she told her partner and shot the doctor an imploring look.

Peter nodded again and said, "Olivia is right, Elliot. You probably have a concussion, and I suspect you're still in a mild state of shock. I'd like to hold you for observation."

Elliot sighed and nodded. "Ok."

Olivia could hear the relief in his voice and see some of the tension leaving his frame. She knew she had done the right thing by nudging the doctor to keep him in the hospital.

"All right then." Peter consulted the chart once again, and said, "Deb tells me you want the PEP protocol."

"Deb?" Olivia inquired.

"The SANE who did the exam," the doctor supplied, and Olivia nodded, remembering now that the woman had told them her name before she began the exam. "The protocol isn't really for everybody, Elliot."

Elliot nodded again. "I realize that. I don't know for certain that the guy had AIDS, but he just got out of prison, and he was put there for molesting seven little girls. I've been exposed before, in a medical emergency situation, and I know the risks and side effects."

Understanding dawned on the young physician's face as he finally realized that the man before him wasn't just some generic traumatized patient, but a knowledgeable individual capable of making informed decisions on his own.

"Ok, that sounds like a wise course of action," he agreed. "I'll make sure you get your first dose of meds as soon as you get to your room. Now, do you have any other questions or concerns you need me to address?"

Elliot shook his head. "I just want to go somewhere and sleep."

Peter made a final note on the chart and said, "Because of the head injury, the floor nurse is going to have to wake you up periodically. I'm sorry."

"It's ok. I knew that would happen."

Peter nodded. "Ok, then, you wait here and rest. Someone will come get you when your room is ready." With that, he gave Olivia an encouraging smile and a nod and was gone.

After a few minutes of silent waiting, Elliot realized he had something to say. "Liv?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you . . . for being here. I couldn't have gone through this alone."

She gently squeezed his hand, which she had been holding since the SANE had left the exam room, and said, "You don't need to thank me. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, El."

A few minutes later, a soft rap on the door announced the arrival of a nurse bearing a tray that contained a bagel with cream cheese, a glass of orange juice, and a hypodermic needle.

"Is it breakfast already?" Olivia asked in surprise.

"No, the cafeteria is closed for the night, but I'm resourceful. I managed to rustle something up," the young woman, whose badge read Mindy Weaver, R.N., replied with a smile as she injected Eliot with the pain medication.

"So, you had to run out and get me something," Elliot said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't give it another thought," she said, waving away his concerns as she disposed of the needle and her gloves. "We keep a stash of food on hand in a fridge in the supply room just for times like this, when a patient is hungry and the cafeteria is closed."

Elliot smiled slightly and said, "Well, then, thank you."

"You're welcome," she said as she moved to the door, "and eat up. Someone will be here shortly to take you up to your room."

Again, they were alone. After letting her partner finish his snack, Olivia spoke up. "El?"

"Yeah?"

"I think you should give your statement tonight."

"No!" he nearly shouted. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You're not going to have a choice," she told him, trying to quell an out-of-place smile as it occurred to her that the words he had just spoken were practically his motto. "You had me call in a homicide. Someone's going to want to know what happened."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to tell them tonight."

She took his hand once more and gently rubbed the back of it. At least it wasn't so icy now. "No, but if you give your statement tonight, at least it will be done."

"Don't give me that crap, Olivia," he sneered. "I'm not some naïve civilian. I know how the system works. I'll give my statement tonight and then someone will be here in the morning with more questions."

His throat tightened up and he choked on his words for a moment as he realized that the nightmare awaiting him could be as frightening and humiliating as the assault itself.

"Then they'll ask me to stop by the precinct when I get out of the hospital." He kept his voice low, hoping it wouldn't crack and reveal his fears. "And they'll show up at the house a week from now, I'll have to talk to the DA, there'll be depositions and discovery, and the DA will want to prep me for trial, and I'll have to testify before the grand jury, and then in court, and . . . and . . . Oh, God, what if my kids find out?"

As he spoke his words came faster betraying his panic, and Olivia had to interrupt to calm him down.

"Shhh. Easy, El," she said, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "You're safe now. Let's just take one step at a time, ok? It's all right, you're safe."

After a few more minutes of gentle shushing, she told him, "If you give your statement tonight, you'll be able to rest knowing that you _can_ talk about it when you _have_ to. You won't have to go on dreading it."

It took a moment, but Elliot eventually nodded his consent.

"Ok, who do you want me to call?"

"Not Fin," he said immediately. "There's no way I could talk to him about this."

"Ok, what about Munch?" Olivia prompted.

Elliot considered the suggestion and then shook his head. "John and I, well, we're friends, I guess. I don't think I would ever be comfortable around him again if I had to tell him what DeVane did to me."

Olivia frowned. Elliot was quickly running out of options. "Do you want _me_ to take your statement?"

"Oh, God, Liv, no!" He began panicking again. "I work too closely with you. I don't want you to know any more about this than you already do. I won't be able to work with you knowing that you have those details in your head. _Please_, promise me you won't work this case and you won't read my statement. Please, Liv, promise me!"

"Ok," she said soothingly and began rubbing the back of his good hand again. "Ok, El, I promise. It's all right. I won't."

She gave him a minute or so to regain some composure and then pointed out, "There's only one person left unless you want to go to a junior detective or someone outside of the squad."

Elliot considered her implication for a moment, and then nodded. "I can talk to Cragen."

She smiled. "I kinda thought you were going to say that. He makes you feel safe, doesn't he?"

Shrugging, Elliot said, "He looks out for all of us."

Olivia nodded, understanding what he meant. The captain was something of a father figure for both of them, and they'd each turned to him in difficult times before. "He's a good man." She let go of her partner's hand and flipped open her cell phone but then realized that she couldn't recall whether she had seen a sign banning them or not. Deciding to be on the safe side, she crossed the room to the phone that hung on the wall, pressed zero for the switchboard and requested an outside line. Then she turned and asked, "Do you want me to tell him why you need to speak to him?"

Elliot hesitated briefly and then said, "Yeah. I think it will be easier if I don't have to do it myself."

Then he closed his eyes and laid his head back against the cushioned exam table and wondered how in the hell he had let this happen to himself. He could hear the soft beeps as his partner dialed the phone and her hushed voice as she spoke to their captain. He could tell by her responses that Cragen was agitated, but by the end of the conversation, she had smoothed his ruffled feathers.

"What's up?" he asked when she returned and took his hand again.

"The uniforms Dispatch sent to the scene found your coat with your badge in it. The investigating detective had already called him to ask about it."

"He's not mad, is he?"

"No," she assured him. "His only concern was to know that you were safe. I told him you are now. He'll be here in about twenty minutes. Why don't you close your eyes and try to rest?"

Suddenly, there seemed to be nothing left to say. Until the captain arrived to take his statement, all Olivia could do was be there to support her partner. Gently, she stroked the back of his uninjured hand, hoping the contact would soothe him. She knew he was in for a long, difficult journey, but she would be there for him no matter what. Many rape victims never really recovered, and for a guy like Elliot it was going to be even harder because the assault had been so unexpected. The attack had been devastating and he would be changed forever by it, but Olivia was determined to do whatever she could to make sure that someday, he would feel safe, strong, and happy again. When his eyes finally slid closed and he drifted off to sleep, she smiled sadly and let her own tears fall for him.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** All SVU characters are property of Dick Wolf and NBC. This story is written for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made from its distribution. Reviews are appreciated.

* * *

**Author's note:** I started this story over two years ago intending to post it during the holiday season of 2005, but one thing led to another and I didn't get it done then. Then, needing some feedback to help me stay motivated, I showed this to my friend Future Mrs. Stabler. She was very sweet in her praise of it and kindly let me know that she was working on something with a similar premise. 

Future Mrs. Stabler and I work differently. She usually posts as she writes, while I usually like to finish something, or be close to finishing it, before I post. Then she started posting "Trip Wire," which is a remarkable epic you should read if you haven't already. I think the site only has room for one story of this nature and magnitude at a time, so again, I put this story on the back burner.

Now the holiday season is rolling around again. Future Mrs. Stabler assures me "Trip Wire" is winding down, and I am in need of some feedback if I am ever going to finish this story. The first twenty-two chapters of this story were written before "Trip Wire" ever saw the light of day or your computer screens and anything in them that bears a resemblance to that story is just coincidence. After chapter twenty-two, any similarities are an homage.


	2. Statement

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Two  
Statement**_

**OOO**

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
3:37 A.M., November 19, 2005_

Captain Donald Cragen was not a happy man. After a twelve-hour day, he'd just been home long enough to loosen his tie, kick off his shoes, and open a bottled water when he got a call from a downtown detective asking him why Elliot Stabler might have left his badge and ID at a murder scene. Don hadn't had an answer for that, but he'd guaranteed the homicide cop that he would have one by dawn.

As he put on his shoes, he started by calling the numbers he had in his cell phone memory. First, he called Elliot's cell. The computer voice told him it was out of service and then kicked him over to voice mail. Then he dialed the Stabler home, and the answering machine picked up on the second ring. He would have tried Kathy Stabler at her mother's, but he didn't have the number or know Kathy's maiden name. Contacting Olivia Benson had been the logical next step, but he'd had the same results as when he'd called Stabler. On his way out the door, he'd rang the office and ordered the civilian administrative aide who answered to "find Munch and Tutuola and tell them that unless they're in hot pursuit of a suspect I want them to get their asses into the station house, pull Benson and Stabler's personnel files, and try every contact number listed."

Kathy Stabler and her mom hadn't seen Elliot since the last time he came to pick up the kids, and now they were worried sick. Depressingly, but not surprisingly, Munch had discovered that, since her mother had died, the only emergency contacts listed for Olivia were Elliot and Cragen, and Cragen was also listed as her next of kin. In reaching out to other colleagues whom Olivia and Elliot might have recently seen in connection with a case or socially, Fin had succeeded only in rousing a sleepy George Huang, a cranky Casey Novak, and a typically overworked Melinda Warner. Almost as an afterthought, Munch had looked through Olivia's Rolodex and found the number for Rebecca Hendrix.

At first, she claimed that she hadn't seen either detective since she'd lost her job at the hospital over that freaky case with the twins. When Fin informed her that they knew Elliot was seeing her for counseling and that he was missing and presumably in trouble, she confirmed that she had seen him earlier in the week, but not since he'd gotten off work that day.

Now it was the wee hours of the morning. Even if everything worked itself out in the next five minutes, it would be after four by the time Don got home, almost five when he got to bed, after six before he could sleep, and the alarm went off at seven.

"I'm getting too old for this crap," he said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his tired eyes. He had hoped by this point in his career that he would be through with the twenty-four-hour shifts, but as it was, they happened far too often for his liking.

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, breathing deeply to relax for two minutes. He had learned the technique from his AA sponsor when he had first gone off the sauce, and he had found it useful in stressful work situations as well. Originally, the idea was to use each breath to think of something he could do besides having a drink. This morning, in the two minutes it took him to take eight deep controlled breaths, he was able to put his anger, frustration, and fear for the safety of his detectives aside and focus on the one thing he needed to do next.

He had made the decision to start calling hospitals and morgues looking for anyone who met Benson or Stabler's descriptions and was reaching for the phone to begin the task himself when it rang.

"Cragen," he barked into the mouthpiece.

"Captain, it's Olivia. I'm at the hospital with Elliot."

"Is he all right? Are you?"

"I'm fine, Don," she answered, "Elliot's not in any danger, but he's not ok either."

"If he can talk, put him on the phone," Cragen ordered. "His badge was found at a downtown homicide, and I've had the whole squad looking for the two of you for the past six hours."

"I'm sorry, Sir, I'm not going to do that."

At least she was calling him 'Sir'; his detectives usually did that when they knew he was about to hand them their asses.

"Dammit, Olivia!" he roared into the phone, the worry of the past several hours coming out as anger.

"He's been raped, Sir," she said calmly, "I've convinced him to give a statement, but he'll only talk to you."

Stunned, Cragen fell quiet for a full minute.

"Sir?"

"How is he?"

"He's a wreck, but he's hanging in there," she said. She gave him the details on Elliot's injuries and then said, "He came to me because he needed a friend to help him through this. As a friend, I have been able to get him to come to the hospital, have a rape kit done, and now, talk to you. I'm afraid if I start acting like a cop, he'll shut down. Also, because we work so closely together, he has asked me not to work the case or even read his statement."

Don sighed. That meant Munch and Fin would have to do everything on their own, but making sure Stabler was ok had to be his priority. "All right, we'll have plenty of other things for you to do. Unfortunately, we always do. What hospital?"

She gave him the necessary information and hung up. He grabbed his portable tape recorder out of his desk and left.

On his way out, Don stopped by Munch and Fin's desks. "Benson just called. They're safe at St. Vincent's Hospital in Manhattan." He allowed himself a smile as the two detectives sighed with relief to know that their friends and colleagues weren't dead.

"So, what happened?" John asked.

"I dunno," the captain lied, acutely aware of the need to protect Stabler's privacy, at least until he had the whole story, "but I'm on my way over there to find out." He looked from Munch to his partner. "Get some food and then some sleep in the crib, not at home. I expect to have another assignment for the two of you before daylight."

He knew both men would follow his instructions, so with only a nod goodbye, he turned and left the squad room.

_Room 327_

_St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan_

_4:08 A.M., November 19, 2005_

Olivia watched her partner as he studied the wall of his hospital room, and decided there was something more she could do for him. She knew what kind of response she was going to get, but she hoped that with a little coaxing she could get him to relent.

"Elliot, when the captain gets here, I'm going to go to the visitors' lounge and call Kathy, ok?"

"What? Liv, no! You can't."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Why not! Liv, she left me a year ago."

Smiling, she told her friend, "That doesn't mean she's stopped loving you, El."

"Olivia, she packed up and walked out on twenty years of marriage with no warning, nothing. I just came home one day, and she was gone, and the kids, too."

He was angry now, and she took that as a good sign. Both of them were much better at coping with anger than they were at dealing with despair. She also knew that he'd actually had plenty of warning, but if she pointed that out to him, he would get defensive and dig in his heels about not calling his wife.

"Elliot, whatever her reasons for leaving, what you two had, well, that kind of connection doesn't just die. Let me call her, I'm sure she'll come, and you need her support."

"I don't want her coming here just because I need her," he said. "I'm not that pathetic."

"No," Liv agreed, wanting to bolster his shattered self-esteem, "you're not pathetic at all, El, but you have been hurt, badly, and you need the support of all your friends _and your family_. Besides, I might not know Kathy all that well, but I do know she would never come just because you need her. She'll come because she loves you."

Elliot pressed his lips into a tight line for a moment, the way he always did when making a decision that he knew he couldn't avoid. "How can you be so sure?" he asked.

"Because I would do the same thing."

He was silent, and Olivia knew she had made her point. It would take him a minute, but he would see the sense in what she was saying. Finally, he nodded.

"Ok, call her," he said, "but please, don't tell her . . . what he did to me."

"Elliot, the point of contacting her is so she can help you deal with what happened. She can't support you if she doesn't know the truth."

"I can't have her seeing me that way, Liv," he explained, pleading with his eyes for her to keep his secret. "I can't stand to have her look at me as a victim, to know I let him . . ."

He stopped talking when he couldn't bring himself to name the thing that had been done to him. Olivia waited a minute, literally counting out sixty seconds in her head, but he couldn't go on. Finally, she spoke.

"Are you afraid she will think less of you because of what happened?"

He shrugged.

"Do you believe _I_ think less of you?"

He didn't answer.

"Did you invite him to do this to you?"

He stayed very still.

"Elliot, did you invite or encourage him?"

She saw his lower lip quiver.

"Elliot, did you ask him to do any of the things he did?"

"No, damn it, of course not!" The outburst caused some pain in his ribs and he grimaced slightly.

She placed a hand over his. "Then you did not 'let' it happen. The fact that it happened anyway, against your will, makes you a victim. You _are_ a victim, of a terrible, violent crime, but nobody who matters will think any less of you for that."

His head dipped, and he shut his eyes tight against the threatening tears.

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. "Elliot, the fact that you were assaulted makes you a victim, but the fact that you are here makes you a survivor. With the help of your friends and family, and with time enough to heal, you will get stronger. In order to help you, the people who love you need to know what happened. Kathy is going to know from your emotional state that this was more than a beating. Not even you can hide this kind of pain. If you don't let me give her some idea of what has happened, she's only going to worry more."

"I don't want to worry her, she's had enough of that already, being married to a cop all this time."

She gently squeezed the hand she was once again holding. "Then let me tell her what you told me, that you were sexually assaulted. She doesn't need to know more than that."

Again, she counted off a minute of silence.

"Elliot?"

He sighed with resignation. "Ok. I trust your judgement, Liv."

"All right, will you give me her mother's number so I can call?"

_An Ill Wind_

Don Cragen stood outside of room number three twenty-seven at St. Vincent's Hospital, and took a few deep breaths. As a kid growing up in Brooklyn, he had never imagined the kind of violence, savagery, and depraved indifference he saw every day in this job. It had taken him a while to adjust to working with the Special Victims Unit. Eventually he had learned to accept the fact that for some people, life was very sad, and he'd begun seeking his joy in the small things like a full candy jar on the corner of his desk, a drink (even if it was just club soda) with one of his detectives after work, a good baseball game, or a picture of his late wife.

The people he worked with were a pleasure, too. John Munch's paranoid tirades always gave him something to laugh about, and more often than not, something to think about, too. The guy was so intelligent, a genius according to his personnel file, and so well read, that it made his absurd ideas almost believable. They were all lucky to have Odafin Tutuola and his stinging wit in the squad to shut Munch down with a pithy comment when his ramblings got too bizarre.

Fin, more than any of the other detectives, was a mystery to Don. He was as intelligent and capable as his colleagues, but he was often reticent and aloof even after five years in the squad. Strangely, though, he was the only one of the senior detectives whom Don felt he could pair with anybody and get satisfactory results every time. Don thought it had something to do with the many long undercover assignments Fin had worked while in narcotics. His survival had often hinged on doing what was expected of him without drawing undue attention to himself, and he had developed a knack for getting along with people without being sucked into their drama.

Then there was Olivia Benson. A child of rape, she was one of those people who'd had a very sad life. She'd never known her father, and her mother was an alcoholic who got stumbling drunk one day and killed herself falling down outside her favorite bar. Despite her background, or maybe because of it, Olivia herself was a source of joy and beauty in Cragen's life, and not just because of her stunning good looks. Strong and confident, with a seemingly endless supply of compassion for those who were suffering, she was absolutely devoted to her partner. He could easily see why Elliot had gone to her when he needed help, and he would do nothing to interfere with that bond. If Stabler didn't want her working his case, he would find other things for her to do.

Finally, there was Elliot. From the day they had met, Cragen had felt a paternal bond with the younger man. That connection had strengthened over the years they had known each other, and as Don had watched Elliot mature and grow into a damned fine detective, he had come to care for his subordinate as he would for his own son. Just as he had always tried to provide gentle guidance, and sometimes not-so-gentle coercion to help the talented investigator keep his cases and his career moving in the right direction, he knew he would do whatever was necessary to help his friend through this crisis.

Stabler had a temper and didn't always exercise good judgment. More than once, Don had put his neck on the line to save the volatile cop from himself, but deep down, Elliot was probably the single most decent human being Don had ever known, bar none. A good Catholic boy, Elliot had been raised to respect women. As a devoted family man, he adored children.

The things he saw in SVU tore Stabler up inside, Don knew, and sometimes he didn't cope so well. The fact that he hated talking to the department shrinks so much meant he had ended up behind a desk more often than some of his colleagues, but Don wouldn't think of having him transferred because he was too damned good at his job.

It had shocked the squad when Elliot had started seeing Rebecca Hendrix for counseling, but as a recovering alcoholic, Don knew rock bottom when he saw it. When Stabler beat Pete Breslin half to death in the courthouse, even the stubborn detective had realized he had to make a change before he destroyed himself.

Of all the people for this lousy thing to happen to! Don had always realized that one of his people could become a victim of a sex crime, just like any member of the public, but like most guys, he always figured it was something that only happened to women. Oh, by virtue of his job, he knew it happened to men, too, but usually only homosexuals, jailbirds, or other guys who were asking for it.

He shook his head, berating himself. He knew no one, male or female, gay or straight, criminal or law-abiding, ever asked to be raped, it just happened because some sick pervert decided the victim looked like an easy target. Yes, he knew it happened to men, but he had never dreamed that it would happen to one of _his _men. So, why the hell did it happen to Elliot?

Don closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to brace himself for the task at hand. When he opened them, he was surprised to see Olivia Benson standing there, framed in the doorway in front of him.

"Hello, Captain. How are you?" she inquired softly, giving no indication that _she_ was surprised to find _him_ lingering outside the door with his eyes closed.

"I'm fine." He peered past her into the dim room at his other detective, looking surprisingly frail in the bed and asked in a hushed voice, "How is he?"

"He wants to pretend it didn't happen, but he can't, he's just hurting too much. I've been trying to nudge him along, step by step: Seek medical attention. Request a rape kit, report the crime. Tell your family. You know the drill."

Cragen raised his eyebrows in surprise, and she nodded. "He just gave me permission to call Kathy and tell her."

"All of it?"

Olivia shrugged. "All that he told me. I think that's enough."

Don nodded and gave her a pat on the shoulder. "You do good work, Liv."

She put her hand over his and said, "Thanks, Cap." Then she looked over her shoulder and said, "Go easy on him. I think he's ready to give you the details, but if you rush him, he might just implode before he can finish. I don't know many of the specifics, but I can tell you that he still thinks he should have done more to stop it."

"Ok, Liv, thanks for the info." As they were about to part ways, he remembered something she ought to know. "Kathy might already be on her way. Munch called her when we first started looking for the two of you. I'm sure he called her back when I told him you were here."

Liv nodded and pointed down the hall. "Well then, I'll be in the visitors' lounge when you're done, with Kathy, I hope."

"I'll come get you."

She took her leave of him, and he took another deep breath. Then he crossed the room to the bedside of his squad's latest special victim.

_An Ill Wind_

"So what do you think is up with Elliot and Olivia?" John Munch asked as he sat down on one of the squeaky cots in the 'crib,' a sleep room provided for exhausted personnel when they were forced by circumstances to work extended hours.

"I dunno. I figure the captain will fill us in when he has any information we need to know," his partner, Fin Tutuola, said and rolled over, turning his back to Munch and hoping to end the speculative conversation.

"Oh, he has information," Munch said, "I could see it in his eyes."

"Knock it off," Fin said, and he turned the other way to face his partner. "I don't trust many people, but Captain Cragen, Elliot, and Olivia, I do. If and when they need to involve us, someone will tell us something. Until then, ignorance is bliss and I'm gonna get some shuteye."

"Yeah, try telling that to IAB when they question you about your activities tonight," Munch said ominously as he lay down on the bed and snuggled under the covers.

Agitated now, and mad at himself for letting his paranoid partner get to him so easily, Fin sat up and looked at his Munch in disbelief. "Are you saying Benson and Stabler are dirty? That's the only reason the rat squad would be involved."

"No, but if the rats get involved, that's what they'll try to make it sound like. I'm just saying something is up, Cragen knows what it is, and we are being left out of the loop," John complained. "If knowledge is power, we have been rendered impotent."

"Yeah, well, they got pills for that now, so make an appointment with your doctor and let me get some sleep." Fin lay down and rolled over again as if he really did believe the discussion was over.

"You said you trusted the captain, Benson, and Stabler," Munch rambled on.

"Yeah, so?"

"You didn't say you trust me."

Fin sat up again and looked at his partner with a mixture of amusement, frustration, and disbelief on his face. "You've been my partner since I joined this squad and I haven't asked for a new one. That should be all you need to know."

Munch looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled slightly and nodded. He lay back and closed his eyes. "Sleep well, Fin," he said.

Fin lay down for a third time, turned on his side, and closed his eyes. "You, too."

He was just dozing off when a voice came out of the darkness. "Fin?"

A deep sigh. "What?" He was not at all eager to hear what was coming, but sometimes talking with Munch could be like watching a train wreck. You really didn't want to do it, but you just couldn't stop yourself.

"I trust you, too."

"Thanks," Fin snapped. "I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that." He was careful not to sound at all happy when he said it, because that would only encourage the man. "Now shut up and go to sleep before I bust a cap your bony ass."

_An Ill Wind_

Captain Cragen took a moment to study his top detective's face as Elliot dozed quietly. He had two black eyes, a fat lip, and a swollen nose, but Olivia had assured him that they were all just ugly-looking minor injuries. The damaged hand, stabilized by an inflatable splint, was more serious and would require some surgery, but it was nothing that would threaten Stabler's life or livelihood. He knew that under the covers Elliot's broken ankle was also splinted to keep it still. He supposed the IV in his arm carried fluids, electrolytes, antibiotics, and a mild sedative, not enough to knock Elliot out against his will, but enough to help him fall asleep when he was ready to quit fighting it and rest. It seemed the only serious lasting damage had been psychological, assuming he didn't contract HIV from his attacker.

"Hey, Cap." Elliot pressed the button that raised the bed to a sitting position and Don startled slightly because he hadn't realized Elliot had known he was there. The dry, weak voice was nothing like the one Don had come to associate with his friend and colleague. He also noticed right away that the detective sounded a little stuffy.

"Elliot." He poured a glass of water from the convenient plastic pitcher that was available in every hospital room and handed it to his injured officer.

"Thanks." Elliot took a swallow of the water. "Have a seat." He indicated the chair near his bed. Don sat, and there was a long silence neither of them could fill until Elliot spoke. "Sorry for dragging you out at this time of night."

"Don't be." Don said as he sat down. He was at a loss for words. Finally, he decided to admit it. "I'm sorry, Elliot, I don't know what to say."

Elliot shrugged. "Nothing you can say. It won't make it any better. Just do the job."

_He needs me to take charge_, Don realized and took out the portable tape recorder he had stashed in his pocket before leaving the office. Pressing the record button, he spoke into the machine supplying the date and location, his name and Elliot's. Then he rewound the tape and played it back to make sure it was working properly. When it had reached the end of his speech, he pressed record again.

"Elliot, do you have any objection to this interview being recorded?"

Elliot took another swallow of his water and said, "No, Sir."

"Do you know who did this to you?"

"Roger DeVane," Elliot answered in a soft monotone, his words slightly muddied by his swollen lip. "You saw the letter, remember? He was let out on parole, compassionate release because he is sick. He . . . he raped me." His voice quavered, revealing fear and torment, and for a moment he had to pause and fight for control of his emotions.

He took another sip of his water, holding the cup carefully so he didn't reopen the cut on his lip before continuing. "Then he killed Muriel Faringo. Olivia lives only ten blocks away, so I went to her place and had her call it in. She asked for a bus, too, and rode here with me."

"Ok, Elliot, I'm going to pause right here and make a call."

Elliot nodded as his captain picked up the bedside phone. He felt relieved to have finally said the words, but he also dreaded what was to come next.

"This is Cragen," Don said into the phone. "Wake Munch and Fin and tell them to pick up a Roger DeVane. He's in the system, just out on parole. His P.O. should know where to find him . . . For questioning in connection with . . . " he looked at Elliot. Even with his eyes closed, the younger man couldn't hide the pain he was feeling. If he told Munch and Tutuola to bring DeVane in on suspicion of rape, they would probably guess who the victim was from the fact that Olivia had been the one to call and say Stabler was safe.

"I don't care what they say," he said angrily. "Munch has a good vocabulary. Tell him to make something up. When they're done with that, tell them to get on to dispatch and find out why in the hell, when one of my detectives called in a homicide at one address and asked for an ambulance at her own home, they failed to notify me."

Without so much as a goodbye, he hung up the phone and turned on the cassette recorder again. "Are you ready to continue?" he asked. When Elliot nodded, Don took out his tablet to make notes of things he wanted to come back to later.

"Ok, Elliot, I want you to start from the point at which you learned that DeVane was out on parole," Don said as gently as he could. "Unless I get confused about something that I don't think can wait until you are finished, I won't interrupt. Can you do that for me?"

Elliot nodded, and then, as if he realized the tape recorder wouldn't recognize it, he said in the same flat monotone he had used when he first named his attacker, "Yeah, ok. It was . . . yesterday, I guess, since it's after midnight now, and the letter was actually addressed to you as my CO. I had a copy, too, but I hadn't opened my mail yet. You wanted to make sure I didn't miss it."

As Elliot told his story, the hospital room faded away and he found himself reliving the hours leading up to the attack. Most of it had been routine, so at first he was perfectly calm, but soon, Don knew, he would have to discuss the assault in detail, and that could get hairy.

"It was like any other day, just normal stuff. Munch had a 9:00 court appearance, so he didn't come in until later, and Fin was writing the report on a case he'd been the primary on."

Elliot sniffed a couple of times, and then grabbed for a tissue. First, he wiped his nose, and then he blew it softly. "Sorry," he said with a sheepish look on his face. "The doc says it's busted, but not too bad. It should heal all right on its own, but he didn't say how I am supposed to keep breathing when it won't stop running."

Don smiled slightly and said, "The swelling will go down in a few days, I'm sure, then it will be easier."

"Yeah, right," Elliot nodded, but didn't sound convinced. "And until then, I have to breathe through my mouth. I hate that, I always sound like an obscene phone call."

Seeming to feel he had said enough about his condition for the time being, Elliot went back to his story. "Ok, so, Fin was writing a report, and Olivia and I had our own cases to deal with. After we made a few phone calls and bounced some ideas around with Fin on another case we had all been working together, Liv and I headed out to interview an alibi witness."

Don noticed that he was calling his colleagues by name instead of by their professional titles. He was talking like a victim telling his story, not a cop giving a statement. Just the thought of it tore at his heart.

"When the alibi fell through, we went to our suspect's job, a plumbing and electrical supply store, to talk to him again and place him under arrest, but big surprise, the little perv had called in sick that day."

Elliot's frustration and disgust with the suspect was beginning to show in his words and his tone, and as he was talking, he became slightly more animated. He shifted in bed, and grimaced as his abused ribs protested. It took him a minute to catch his breath, but then he continued his story. "We checked his home and his mother's house, and then visited some of his known haunts and hangouts, but by noon we'd had no joy, so we stopped at a Chinese buffet in the area for lunch while we decided what to do next on the case.

"At lunch, I got a call on my cell that our suspect had called his boss and asked for his paycheck, so we had our food boxed and went back to the store to wait for the little creep. We collared him there, and of course he had a perfectly plausible reason why he was trying to get his paycheck and skip town, and naturally, it had nothing at all to do with the fact that he had raped a woman in the alley behind her apartment when she was taking her trash out to the Dumpster."

Elliot grabbed another tissue to wipe his nose, and when he opened his mouth for another breath something rattled in his throat and he started to cough. For the next couple of minutes, Don watched, wincing in sympathy, as his friend struggled through the coughing spasm and the agony it caused his cracked ribs. He considered calling the nurse, but knew Elliot could have been coughing up blood and would have insisted he was fine.

Finally, the spasm passed, and Elliot gently blew his nose and settled back against the pillows with a long, low moan. He was pale and perspiring, and Don wondered if he should come back later to finish the interview, but he knew Elliot was the only one who could tell him that.

"Are you all right?"

"No," the answer was still nasally, "but I can go on."

Don nodded. "Ok, just take your time, and if you decide you need to stop, just say so."

Elliot nodded. "Where was I?"

"You had Chinese food for lunch and then busted a suspect."

Don doubted that any of the information he had received so far was relevant to the crime, but he figured that Elliot had been trying to work himself up to discussing the details of what had happened. Knowing that it was best to let victims proceed at their own pace, he just kept quiet and listened as his detective rambled on about a routine day in the SVU.

"Ok, right. We took our suspect back to the station and booked him, completed our paperwork, and contacted Novak about taking the case to the grand jury for an indictment. I checked my messages and found out there had been twelve hysterical calls from Muriel Faringo. She had received the notice that Roger DeVane was out and she was certain he was calling her house."

The closer he got to his nightmare encounter with DeVane, the more restless Elliot got, and every time he shifted position, he would wince in pain. Don supposed it was the flight part of his flight or fight instinct that was making him squirm around despite the pain it caused, and he resisted the temptation to tell the other man to just be still.

"I called her back and it turned out she was receiving hang-up calls where the phone would ring, and when she answered it, there would be no one there. I figured it could be DeVane, but we'd have to prove it before we could do anything to stop it. I gave her my word I'd have the phone company look into it, to make sure it wasn't any problem with the phone lines, and I told her I would stop by that evening to check on her. Liv and I made some more phone calls, completed a couple more reports, and reviewed one of our stalled open cases hoping we could come up with some new ideas on what to do next."

Elliot tried to sit straighter in the bed, and he used his hands to push himself up. The pain that shot through his injured left hand and arm caused it to give out, and when he suddenly slumped to that side his ribs screamed at him in protest. He bit his tongue against the stream of expletives that wanted to come out and tried to catch his breath instead; but it hurt too much to take a full breath, and soon, he was seeing stars. Then there was a strong, comforting hand on his forearm, and his captain's voice said, "You can curse about it if you want, I won't be offended."

"Ohhhh, damn," he moaned.

"Slow, shallow breaths, Elliot," Don suggested. "Take all the time you need."

For the next several minutes, the detective just sat with his eyes closed, breathing through his mouth, and sniffling periodically as he collected himself. Finally, he sighed, blinked a few times, and began to speak again.

"Ok, the day ended without anything important happening, and I decided to drop by Muriel's house on my way home. Um . . . I was officially off the clock, but I figured . . . she just needed some reassurance, you know?"

Don nodded. "I know what you mean. We've all done it from time to time."

As he got closer to the worst part of his story, Elliot began to alternately pause and rush his words as if thinking of what he could bear to say next and then blurting it out before he had a chance to change his mind. He had also started balling the fitted bed sheet up in his good hand until he had gathered up so much of the fabric that was about to pop off one of the corners of the mattress. His voice became shakier and more uncertain as spoke, but as long as he was willing to continue talking, Don was content to let him go on a little longer.

"I intended to . . . um, check her locks, let her know if I saw any shrubbery that needed to be cut back to keep it from giving an intruder cover to break in at the windows . . . and I was going to do that for her if I could and she didn't have anyone else. It wasn't a big deal, you know? And, since my wife has moved out and taken the kids with her, it wasn't like I had anything better to do. So, I sent my partner home and then signed out myself."

It was the catch in Elliot's voice when he mentioned his wife leaving that made Don decide to intervene. The attack was enough to deal with, he didn't want his detective to start dwelling on all the things that had gone wrong in his marriage while he was at it. He needed to stop and redirect his friend's attention somehow.

"Elliot, I'm going to stop you for a moment," Don said, though he didn't turn the recorder off. So far, he had only about thirty minutes on the first side of a ninety-minute tape, and he didn't think he'd need to worry about running out because Elliot wouldn't want to dwell on the rest of his painful story. Mostly he just wanted to break in and pull his friend back to the present. "I have a few questions."

He poured the younger man another glass of water, and since Elliot had only one good hand right now, he had to let go of the balled up sheet to accept it.

"First of all, did you ever hear back from the telephone company?"

"No, but you know how they can be, Cap. It would have taken a couple of days for them to get back to me, and I didn't want to leave Muriel hanging that long."

Elliot sipped a little of his water but didn't seem to want it. He set the cup on the table that extended over the bed in front of him, and this time, he rested his hand in his lap.

"Yeah, I know they have no idea what the word 'now' means. Why didn't you take Benson with you?"

Elliot shrugged. "If I had asked her, I'm sure she'd have come, but like I said, we were off the clock. I was stopping then because it was on my way home. I thought it was going to be more of the usual hand-holding, you know the kinds of things we do to reassure victims when we can't really protect them. If I had known . . ."

Don waited and watched his friend clench and unclench his fist, watched the muscle in his jaw twitch. After several seconds, Elliot lowered his head and, in a tightly controlled voice, said, "If I had known what would happen, if I had known I would need backup, I would have asked her to come."

Looking up, Elliot continued. "Muriel had never met Olivia. I felt that, considering everything she had been through, bringing a stranger into her home would be an unnecessary intrusion, even if she was a cop."

"Ok." Don made a few notes, and seeing that he was now close to the forty-minute mark on his tape, he pressed fast forward. Once he had flipped the cassette and started again, giving the date, location, his name and Elliot's, and stated that it was side two, he asked, "Do you feel like you can go on?"

Nodding, Elliot took a slow breath and said, "Yeah, Cap, now that I have started this, I need to finish it."

His voice became a flat monotone as he began to speak about what had to be the worst night of his life. "When I got to Muriel's house, the door was ajar. That seemed a little odd to me, but it wouldn't have been the first time a scared victim had freaked before I could get there and just run off to a friend's house leaving the door open and all the lights on. I figured I'd just in, call her name, see if she was there before I did anything else.

"I pushed the door all the way open, and there she was, in the middle of the front room, naked and tied to a chair. She . . . she was gagged, and her legs were tied open. I swept the room, and didn't see anybody else."

Here Elliot looked at his CO, his eyes begging to be believed. "Cap, I swear to God, I looked! I swear I did, but I didn't see anyone! He must have been around the corner or something!" The shouting must have caused him pain, but this time, his need for reassurance was so much greater that he seemed not to notice the discomfort.

"I know, Elliot," Don assured him gently. "I know you looked, but why didn't you call for backup?"

"I had my phone in one hand and my gun in the other as I crossed the room," he said, the words pouring from him now as if it would hurt less if he told the story faster. "I was about to dial, but I wanted to get her untied and out of there. She tried to warn me, Cap. She was screaming into the gag, but I was doing too much at once, and I didn't realize what she was trying to tell me until I heard something moving behind me, sort of a _whoosh_, I turned just as he swung, and he only landed a glancing blow. It was enough to knock me down, disorient me. I think if I hadn't turned, if he'd hit me square on, he'd have split my skull. He was using a bat, I think, something heavy like that, too heavy to be a broomstick."

Elliot paused for a moment, took a sip of his water. He was trembling slightly and had a lost, confused look in his eyes that a man with the experience of Don Cragen recognized as abject terror. He hated to press, but Elliot had been right earlier when he'd said now that he had started the story, he needed to finish it. If Don let him stop now, just as he was getting to the hardest part, he might never find the courage go on.

"Elliot, I know this is hard, but you are safe now. You can do this. Tell me, what happened next?"

Elliot nodded, swallowed hard, and closed his eyes. "He, um . . . he took my phone and my gun, and clubbed me a few more times on my back and ribs, mostly. I kicked at him once and he caught my ankle." As Elliot spoke, he reenacted the struggle with small gestures. When he mentioned being hit in the ribs, he wrapped his good arm protectively around them, and when he said he kicked, his right leg twitched.

"Then he caught me in the gut and I couldn't breathe, and he whacked me in the head again." His hand went up to the knot on his head. "I don't think he knocked me out, but he stunned me. All I could do . . . was lie there. I couldn't think . . . couldn't move . . . couldn't fight back. I was so helpless. I couldn't stop him . . . from doing anything he wanted."

Elliot's features crumpled into an expression of despair and tears threatened as he relived the horror of the previous evening. Cautiously, Don moved his chair closer to the bed and placed a hand on his friend's arm once again.

"Elliot?" he said. "Elliot, I know you have heard this before, said it to victims, but it's the truth. You did the only thing you are supposed to do in a situation like that. You survived. You survived, Elliot, and you have people who care about you to help you deal with the rest. You know that, right?"

Elliot nodded again, sniffled and gulped, took a sip of his water, and continued without prompting, rambling through the story, trying to race to the end.

"He took my coat off me and draped me over the back of a chair so my head was down toward the seat and my feet were off the floor. I couldn't resist. It was all I could do to stay conscious. The chair was near the bottom of the stairs, so he pushed it over to the banister. He took my cuffs and chained me to the big post at the bottom. There was a bottom rail where the balustrades were attached, and the cuffs passed under it, so I couldn't stand up.

"Then he taunted me, asked me if I felt like such a tough cop now, and he . . . he started taking my clothes off."

Elliot choked and gasped for air. While he'd been talking, his eyes had closed again and he'd become lost in the fear and shame once more. As he sat there, breathing hard and fighting his tears, Don shifted position to be right in his line of sight when he opened his eyes.

"Elliot, look at me," Don prompted. It took a moment, but the detective obeyed, and when he did, Don said, "You are safe now. No one can hurt you, and no one will judge you. You stayed alive, and that is the most important thing. You survived, and you are safe now, right?"

Elliot nodded.

"Say it, Elliot."

Elliot looked into his captain's eyes and saw the depths of sincerity there. This man and his other friends and colleagues would not think less of him for what had happened. The most important thing to them was that he had survived so they could be there to help him get better and get justice. They would protect him while he needed their protection, and they would support him when he was back on his feet again.

"Elliot?"

Smiling slightly, the detective nodded and replied, "I'm safe now."

Don smiled back. "Ok, take a minute to collect yourself, and whenever you're ready, just continue."

It took considerably more than a minute, and every so often he or his captain would comment on some little, irrelevant thing like the weather just to break up the silence, but eventually, Elliot cleared his throat, and went on quietly.

"He . . . he stripped me from the waist down . . . left my shorts around my ankles . . . to humiliate me, I guess. Said something about being caught with my pants down, and he laughed at me like it was a big joke. He was proud of himself for sneaking up on me like he did . . . Then he, um . . . he asked me if I remembered threatening to put the word out at Riker's that he was a child molester. I did . . . remember, I mean . . . during the interview when we busted him, I thought it might scare him into cooperating. It's not an uncommon tactic, you know."

Don nodded when Elliot looked to him for confirmation. "I know, we make that threat from time to time, it's ok, Elliot. Then what happened?"

"He told me this was payback, and he . . . raped me. He penetrated me from behind, I don't know how many times. He used something . . . hard and cold, and he had my gun and he put it to my head and made me take him . . . his penis into my mouth. He touched me . . . everywhere . . . fondled me . . . like he was flaunting his power over me and the whole time, he kept telling me about guys in prison and what they had done to him, what he planned to do to me."

Elliot visibly relaxed after that, and Don figured that, since he had survived the hardest part, describing the act itself, he would be able to finish his story without too much more trauma.

"At first, I tried to resist, but that only made it hurt worse, and it made him more violent, so I just tried to sort of zone out, like I did when I was in basic training in the Marines and they would give the whole platoon punishment. You go to this place in your head where nothing can touch you and you feel like you can just go on forever, running or doing sit-ups or whatever they tell you to do, but I couldn't quite get there."

Suddenly the detective was tense again. Don couldn't imagine what could be worse than what he had already described, but apparently, to his grave disappointment, he was about to find out. He wished there was something he could do to make this easier for his friend, but he knew, all he could do was hear what he had to say and use it to put DeVane back in jail forever.

"I don't know how long . . . the assault went on, but eventually . . . he stopped. Then he went back to Muriel. He whipped his victims twelve years ago, and told them, 'Careless little girls must be punished.' I heard him . . . I heard him tell her she was a little too old for his tastes now, but he had to finish what he started, and he beat her and said that to her over and over."

Looking up at his captain, he said with cold fury in his voice, "She was twelve years old when he snatched her, Cap, and he held a grudge against her all that time. How the hell can someone hate a little girl for that long?"

Don just shook his head. "I don't know, Elliot, and I'm glad for that. I really don't think any of us needs to get that deep inside the heads of the freaks we deal with."

Elliot nodded and continued, "I guess not. Well, the way I was cuffed to the stairs, I couldn't turn to see what he was doing, but he took Muriel's gag off and I heard her talking. First, she told me she was sorry . . . like it was her fault for calling me, then she begged him for _my_ life, Cap. She pleaded with him not to kill _me_, and he promised her he wouldn't. And she _thanked _him."

Elliot paused for a long time, and Don let the silence grow. He didn't need any kind of reassurance at the moment, he just needed time to gather his thoughts. "She thanked him for sparing me and never said a thing to try to save herself. After all the messages she had left, and I thought she was just flaking out. I couldn't have blamed her for that, but then, when it came right down to it, she was really brave. I mean, she was scared, I could hear it in her voice, but she was brave at the same time, like she was accepting it because she knew she couldn't stop it from happening."

Don sense that Elliot was rambling now because he didn't want to say whatever was coming next. He hated to do it, but he gently pushed his friend to continue. "What happened then, Elliot?" he asked gently.

Elliot looked at him with sad eyes. His expression said he knew he'd been babbling, and more than that, he knew that his captain understood why. Taking a deep breath and wincing at the pain it caused him, he pressed on, determined to finish his story.

"He said he was going to leave me to live with the knowledge that I couldn't save her, but he still needed his revenge. I heard the whip crack and she screamed, over and over and over, and I heard his grunting and her crying when he raped her, and then I heard her praying. I couldn't quite make out the words, I . . . I don't remember what she said, but I know . . . I know she was praying for me."

Elliot paused and looked at his captain as if seeking an explanation for the woman's selfless behavior, but all Cragen could do was shrug. He didn't understand it either.

Elliot shrugged back slightly, and continued talking. "I wanted to help her, Cap, God knows I did, but all I could do was yell and curse DeVane and try to get his attention back on me, but nothing worked. Eventually, he just got pissed off and clubbed me in the head again, and that time, I passed out."

There was a quiet moment, and then Elliot added, "Oh, and sometime before he knocked me out, he told me that he had learned one lesson while he was in jail."

Sensing that it was important, at least in Elliot's mind, Don asked, "What was that?"

"He said, 'Dead bitches can't pick you out of a line up.'"

Elliot fell silent for a few minutes after that, and Don used the time to start a new tape. He really hadn't expected this to take as long as it had, but fortunately, there were two cassettes in the package, so he would have plenty of time for the questions he needed to ask when the story was done. When Elliot still hadn't begun talking after a silent hundred count, he asked, "What do you remember when you came to?"

"I smelled blood," Elliot replied, "and I knew I was in some pretty serious trouble."

From there, Elliot went on to describe how he freed himself from the handcuffs and made his way to Olivia's place.

"Why go all that way? Why didn't you just ask a neighbor to call 911?"

Elliot looked at his captain blankly and blinked a few times. "I . . . don't . . . really know," he said. "Maybe I was in shock, all I knew was Olivia was a friend and she would take care of me. I knew at the time that I shouldn't leave the scene unsecured, but I couldn't for the life of me think of any other way. I knew, if I could get to Olivia's apartment, I would be safe. Even if she wasn't home, I have a key and I could let myself in and wait for her."

Suddenly, his eyes grew wide. "My keys, Cap! DeVane took my keys. He has a key to Liv's place now! Cap, we have to warn her!"

"It's ok, Elliot," Don reassured him. "She's waiting in the visitors' lounge right now. I'll let her know."

"She has to get her locks changed," Elliot insisted. "If he followed me, he knows where she lives."

"I'll let her know that," Don said. "Don't worry, we'll keep her safe for you."

It took a couple more minutes, but finally Elliot calmed down.

"Now, I just have a few more questions, Elliot," the captain said gently, "and they're pretty awkward, but I need you to answer them so we can bring as many specific charges as possible against this creep."

Elliot nodded. "I know the drill."

For the next ten minutes, he answered his captain's questions about which particular sexual acts had been performed on him, which ones he had been forced to perform, how many times it had happened, and anything else he could recall about the assault.

Finally, it was over. Don shut off the tape recorder and said, "I'll type up your statement and bring it to you to review and sign later."

"Thanks, Cap." The two men sat in silence for a little while, and then Elliot said, "I let her down, Cap."

"What do you mean?"

"It was my job to protect her, to keep her safe, and I couldn't do it. _She_ apologized to _me_ for what DeVane did. _She_ begged for _my_ life, and he killed her before I could even tell her it wasn't her fault."

"Listen to me, Son," Don said, adopting a paternal, supportive role with his younger, dejected detective. "Hard as it is to swallow, it isn't really your job to keep good people safe. You are a detective. Your job is to put the bad people who hurt them in jail. You did that for Muriel Faringo, and with the squad's help, you will do it again. You can't change what happened to her, but with your testimony, you can make sure DeVane is punished. As for her apologizing to you, well, she's in a place now where she understands that none of this was her fault, or yours either. I really believe that, and you should, too.

"You did your job, Elliot," Don assured him, "your job, and then some. Don't ever think you have failed anyone on that count."

The only reaction he got was that Elliot looked away from him. Since he wasn't sure what else he might say, or what he wanted his detective to say, he just patted the other man on the shoulder, got out of his seat and left the room, saying, "I'll send Liv and Kathy in on my way out."


	3. Initial Results

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Three  
Initial Results**_

OOO

_Parole Officer's Michael Tillery's Apartment  
321 8th Ave., Chelsea  
4:33 A.M., November 19, 2005_

Munch ran his finger down the list of tenants. "Here we go, Michael Tillery, apartment 308." He pressed the buzzer.

"You know, if I were this guy, I'd be pretty pissed," Fin said as they waited for a response to their buzz. At Munch's questioning look, he explained his thinking. "Being a P.O. is supposed to be a nine-to-five job. They tell you all you have to do is keep tabs on a few reformed felons. Next thing you know, they've tripled your case load, you have reams of paperwork, and you're on call any time one of your guys steps over the line."

"Yeah," Munch agreed pressing the buzzer again, "but on the upside, parole officers usually don't get shot at, they don't need a warrant to go into the parolee's home to have a look around, and they don't have to deal with the victims or their families."

"I guess there is a silver lining to every cloud," Fin agreed, and he pressed the call button and held it down for a good fifteen seconds. "And they don't have to stand out on someone's front stoop freezing their asses off at four-thirty in the morning waiting for him to decide to roll out of the rack and come see who's buzzing him."

"Yeah, what do you want?" a sleep-roughened voice shouted at them through the speaker.

"John Munch and Fin Tutuola, Manhattan SVU," Munch said holding his badge up to the camera lens. "We need to speak to you concerning one of your clients."

A curse was cut short as Tillery buzzed them in.

_Room 327_

_St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan_

_4:41 A.M. November 19, 2005_

Kathy Stabler watched her husband as he rested in the big, white hospital bed and realized she had never, in all her life, seen him so vulnerable. They had grown up in the same neighborhood, been high school sweethearts. Maureen had been a happy accident, not unwanted, but a little earlier than expected, just a few months before graduation. They had managed to keep the pregnancy a secret from their parents until a few days after the wedding, and on his first leave from the marines, Elliot had become a father. They were both just nineteen at the time.

It had been difficult for them when he got out of the service a few years later. All he'd ever wanted was an Ozzie and Harriet life where she took care of the children while he brought home a paycheck and spent his time off cutting the grass, painting the shutters, and being the world's greatest dad. The reality had been that he was unemployed for months while she worked part time, and there was another baby on the way. For more than a year, they had only paid the interest on their mortgage, and barely that.

Eventually, he had enrolled in night classes, taken a part time job just to make ends meet, finished a degree in criminal justice, and joined the NYPD. It had taken them a while, but by the time the twins were born, they were well on their way to the American Dream.

He was only twenty-seven when he realized his hairline was receding, and that had freaked him out for a week or two. She had taken every opportunity to reassure him that he would be gorgeous no matter what happened to his hair, pointing out all the sexy famous men who were bald. Unfortunately, he didn't believe her when she told him Telly Savalas was hot as Kojack, but then she'd always been a lousy liar. He didn't know who Ben Kingsley was, and he was convinced that Sean Connery's only allure was the accent.

Finally, though, she'd hit upon Terry Bradshaw. Bradshaw was someone Elliot could relate to, having played football himself in high school. The retired quarterback was showing his age and was not nearly so smart as her husband, but she had convinced Elliot that he was still a handsome man. The realization that he would probably age better than the former athlete had been enough to get Elliot over the initial shock of losing his hair, and ever since then, the prospect of slowly going bald had held no worries for him.

Kathy swallowed hard, fighting the urge to bawl as she looked down at her sleeping husband and thought how trivial their problems seemed in light of what they were facing now. She'd left him over a year ago, not because he was a bad husband, but because he was so angry all the time. All she ever wanted was to be a good wife to him, to take care of him, but, in the years since he'd joined the SVU, he'd shut her out more and more to protect her and their children from the horrors he saw every day. Now, she was terrified that when he'd finally called her for help, she wouldn't know how to be there for him.

She sighed quietly. First of all, he had to know she was here.

"El?"

Blue eyes fluttered open, and he favored her with a smile that showed equal parts delight and despair.

"You came," he said in wonder, his voice proving that he was as happy to see her as he was desperate to have her stay. "I can't believe you came."

"Elliot, I love you," she told him, certain for the first time in months that it was still true. "Where else would I be at a time like this?"

His face puckered for a moment as if he were going to cry, and then it relaxed. "Did Liv tell you what happened?"

"Not in detail, but I got the gist of it," she said.

"Do you want to know more?" he asked, his voice betraying his fears.

She took the seat beside the bed to be closer to his eye level, and then she took his hand in hers. "Yes, I want to know more," she said, "but only if you feel like telling me. I can't begin to imagine how terrible this is for you, El, and I know how hard it is for you to talk about things. I'm not going to push you to say anything because I don't want to push you away. I'll listen if you want to talk, but you don't have to. You don't have to tell me what he did, and you don't have to tell me how you feel, but Elliot, you _must_ tell me what you need. I can't help you if I don't know what to do."

His face puckered up again and he gulped for air, then he said, in a tiny, frightened voice, "I just need you to hold me right now."

"Oh, Honey," Kathy sympathized, and, putting the railing down on the bed, she carefully sat on the mattress beside him and gathered him into a hug, and for the first time since Maureen was a baby, he curled up in her arms and bawled.

_An Ill Wind_

"Really, guys," Mike Tillery complained as he booted up his laptop, "couldn't this have waited for office hours?"

"Aw, gee," Fin mocked him, "sorry we didn't think to ask our captain that when he called the station to have us kicked out of the crib so we could come find you in the middle of the night."

Munch opened his phone and punched up Cragen's cell number. "Why don't you ask him for us?"

Tillery shot him a disgusted look and conceded, "All right, it was a stupid question. Now, who are you looking for?"

"Santa Claus," Munch said sarcastically, "and if you can't find him the Tooth Fairy will do!"

Tillery looked at the taller detective askance for a moment, and when the man didn't so much as crack a smile, he nodded slightly, understanding that this was more serious than a routine check. These guys were working a hot case and likely wouldn't see the insides of their eyelids again until it was closed. While he waited for the computer to come online, he crossed the main room of his tiny apartment and switched on the coffee maker in his kitchenette. In seconds, a stream of dark liquid was dribbling into the glass carafe.

"Excuse my partner," Fin said. "His mama never taught him any manners. We're lookin' for a perv named Roger DeVane. He did twelve years for raping six little girls before he got parole."

"And he's in trouble again already? I just got his file scanned in. What did he do this time?" Munch and Fin traded uneasy looks behind Tillery's back as the parole officer took three mugs out of a cupboard and a small carton of cream from the fridge.

"We suspect he might have something to do with a homicide in Manhattan," John finally volunteered, hoping it was the truth if only because he hated lying to his colleagues. They couldn't believe it when they'd been told the captain had said they should make something up, but Benson lived in Manhattan, Stabler was in a hospital near her neighborhood, and Cragen _had_ mentioned a homicide.

Tillery set the mugs and the cream on the table next to the sugar bowl and opened a drawer from which he retrieved three spoons.

"Doesn't surprise me," he said as he opened the file on his computer. "He struck me as a real jerk from the moment I met him. Seemed like he had an axe to grind with someone. He's probably a sociopath who turned on the charm just long enough to fool the parole board. He knows I can't do anything to him unless I catch him in a violation, so he'll go through the motions, but he made it real clear at our first meeting that he didn't give a rat's ass what I think of him."

"Yeah? How'd he do that?" Munch asked.

"Told me so in just those words," Tillery answered, clicking the print icon on his computer.

"That will take a couple of minutes," he said gesturing toward the printer. Then he crossed the room to the coffeepot again. Flipping the switch that halted the brewing process, he waited for the stream of coffee to stop, poured three steaming cups, replaced the carafe, and turned it on again.

"Since you guys are obviously approaching the tail end of an all-nighter and probably heading right into another twelve- or fourteen-hour shift without any sleep, you might want to join me?"

Munch and Fin exchanged grins, and then, still smiling, Fin turned to the parole officer and said, "You know, Tillery, if I got to know you a little better, I might even get to like you."

Tillery grinned back and said, "You're not my type."

_Apartment of Muriel Faringo_

_154 Clinton Street, Manhattan_

_4:52 A.M. November 19, 2005_

Cragen sighed as he pulled up to 154 Clinton Street. He hated what he was about to do, and it really pissed him off when it happened to his people, but he felt it was necessary to protect Stabler's dignity. He flashed his badge to the officer at the door and asked the young man to point out the detective in charge of the case.

"That would be Detective MacDonald," the officer said.

Glancing at the man's badge, Don said, "Thank you, Officer Rodriguez."

"Detective MacDonald," he said as he approached the fiftyish woman with graying brown hair, "Donald Cragen, Manhattan SVU. I believe we spoke a few hours ago?"

"Captain Cragen, yes." She gave him a smile that was far from friendly, and he knew right away what kind of person he was dealing with. This woman had worked her way up back in the days when the pervading attitude was that women didn't belong in the NYPD, let alone in the vaunted offices of the homicide division. Twenty years ago, when victims were left to cope with the aftermath of violent crime on their own and a woman's compassionate nature wasn't valued as the vital interrogation tool they now knew it to be, MacDonald was forced to be tough to fit in like one of the boys. She had succeeded beyond anybody's expectations, but along the way she had lost her ability to empathize. She was harder now, less sympathetic than most of her male counterparts, and Don knew he had done the right thing calling the chief of detectives and convincing him to hand the case over to the SVU squad.

"Do you have an answer for me?" she asked.

"An answer?"

"As to what the hell your detective was doing at the scene of a homicide and why the hell he left the scene?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, and I'm afraid you're not going to like it," he said.

"Well, I'm waiting," she said in a tone that suggested she wouldn't wait very long before she left him with himself for company.

"This is an SVU case," Don told the woman.

"Oh, I don't think so," MacDonald responded sarcastically, "you lost it the moment your detective walked off and left a dead body in his wake! In fact, I am on my way over to the hospital to talk to him as soon as I finish here, and unless he has a damned good story to tell me, I'm going to be calling IAB in to investigate."

"Actually, no, you're not," Cragen informed her as her cell phone rang. "That will be the Chief of Detectives calling to tell you to give me everything you've got and then go home."

She shot him a dirty look as she checked the caller ID on her cell and then answered it.

"Chief," she said in a honeyed voice, "Yes, Sir, he's here . . . Yes, Sir, he told me . . . But Stabler left the scene, Chief . . . How do we know _he_ didn't kill Ms. Faringo, Sir? . . . I should at least take his statement . . . He has?"

She shot daggers at Cragen with her eyes.

"Well, Stabler can tell his captain anything he wants," she snapped, and then self-consciously switched back to the same dulcet tone with which she had answered the call, "I would still like to collect the evidence and see if his story holds up . . . But, Sir . . . "

She held the phone away from her ear as the voice at the other end grew louder.

"Yes, Sir," she replied with a sigh, and when she was sure the Chief was gone, she folded the phone shut with a snap. Eyeing up Cragen, she said bitterly, "I have been instructed to give you all of my notes and to have all of the forensics sent to you, so the good-ol'-boy network triumphs again."

"I take no satisfaction from this, Detective," Don informed her.

"Forgive me for not believing you," she said in a tone that indicated that she really didn't care whether he did or not.

"I don't give a damn what you believe," Don responded, "but the fact remains that this _is_ part of a Manhattan SVU case dating back more than a decade. Now, what have you got so far?"

_An Ill Wind_

"Where to now?" Munch asked as he folded his long, lean frame into the passenger seat of the car.

Fin shrugged and started the engine. "Back to the squad room, I guess."

"In defeat," Munch lamented, "to tell the captain we've hit a dead end."

"Dead end, my ass," Fin said. "We have three associates of DeVane's to track down and a bar to check out when it opens for business."

"Fine, tell Cragen that, maybe it won't piss him off coming from you!" Munch snapped.

"Maybe I will!" Fin shot back.

They lapsed into exhausted silence.

"Sorry," John said six blocks later.

"Me, too," Fin replied. "We're both just tired."

"Working in the dark doesn't help either," Munch told him.

"I been thinkin' about that," Fin said. "The fact that the captain told us Benson and Stabler were safe at the hospital but didn't tell us _why_ they were at the hospital kinda bugs me."

"So, I'm not the only one who's paranoid?" John asked.

"Hell, no!" Fin assured him, "You're just the only one who's crazy. I'm worried about my friends."

Munch grinned at his partner and shook his head. After a few more blocks of travel, he took out his cell phone and scrolled through the numbers.

"What are you doing now?"

"Seeing if I can't at least find out why Dispatch didn't notify the captain that Elliot and Olivia were involved in a homicide and taken to the hospital."

"Trying to appease the old man, huh?"

Munch cut him a look that suggested he wasn't far wrong and said, "Trying to feel like we've accomplished something tonight, since we didn't get any sleep."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Fin muttered.

"You didn't _have _to talk to me," Much sniped back.

"We're not going to have this argument," Fin snapped. "Make your phone call and let me drive."

_An Ill Wind_

Kathy sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, stroking her husband's hair and hoping he would sleep soon. She wasn't sure how long it had taken him, but, like each of their children had often done when they were babies, he had finally cried himself out. Now he lay there, his head resting on her left thigh as he stared vacantly at her right knee and toyed with the seam on the right leg of her jeans.

She had struggled, not entirely successfully, to hold herself together as he let the misery pour out of him. She had so wanted to be strong for Elliot, but when he hurt, she hurt. In the end, though, her tears hadn't mattered, all he really needed was for her to be with him.

Finally, his eyes drifted shut, the hand that was playing with her jeans fell still, and with a deep sigh, he seemed to give in to the exhaustion that had been pulling at him for hours. He seemed comfortable and content to sleep with his head in her lap, and she didn't want to disturb him, so carefully, she reached out and pressed the button that adjusted the bed to make herself more comfortable. Just as the head of the bed rose into position to give her back more support, he spoke.

"Kathy?" His voice was soft, but not so timid as it had been when she first arrived.

"Yeah?"

"Could you help me take a shower?"

"Oh, El, you're so tired," she said sympathetically. "Wouldn't you rather sleep now and freshen up after you've rested?"

"I couldn't . . . wash . . . before they examined me. It would have . . . It would have destroyed evidence," he explained, struggling over the words, wanting her to understand without having to give any details. "Then the captain came not long after they brought me to my room and you arrived right after he left. He's . . . still on me, Kath. I won't be able to sleep until he's gone. Please, help me take a shower."

Kathy considered his request. She would happily help him in any way possible, but, considering his injuries, this was one time when she didn't think she could. She knew he wouldn't want to call in a stranger, but she didn't see any other recourse.

"Between your hand, your ankle, your ribs, and the IV, I don't think you can get to the bathroom without help, El, and I'm afraid if I try to move you myself and you stumble or something, I won't be strong enough to keep you from falling and getting hurt worse."

"Kathy, please, I can still feel him, smell him. All I want is to take a shower so I can get rid of him," he pleaded.

She suspected it would be quite some time before soap and water could make him feel clean again, but if he needed to bathe before he could rest, she'd try her best to make it happen. "Ok, if you let me call a nurse to help you there and back, and if you sit on a shower stool, I will help, but I'm afraid to try to move you by myself."

Elliot weighed his wife's suggestion against his need to feel clean. He wasn't sure that he could cope with a stranger's hands on him right now, but he knew for certain that he couldn't ever sleep again until he'd had the chance to bathe.

"The nurse will go just to the bathroom and back, only you will stay with me while I shower?"

Kathy nodded, "Ok."

Elliot took a shuddering breath. "I think I can do that."

_16th Precinct_

_Special Victims Unit_

_5:34 A.M. November 19, 2005_

The tape finished and as Don Cragen watched, both Munch and Fin started slightly at the loud click as the machine shut off. Munch, who was more sensitive than he would like to admit, appeared to be deeply moved by the statement they had just heard, like it wouldn't take much more to push him to tears. Fin seemed disgusted and profoundly disturbed by Elliot's account of events at Muriel Faringo's apartment, but after five years of working with the detective, Don knew Fin would be sympathetic toward his colleague and that his anger would be reserved for the man who had attacked Stabler.

"Tell Elliot that we're gonna get this son of a bitch, Captain, and I'm gonna make it my business to be there when they execute him for murdering Muriel Faringo," Fin said in a tone that chilled Don. The captain nodded his understanding, knowing that however much his detectives wanted to take their revenge themselves, they would do their jobs and leave DeVane's punishment to the law.

"Do they know if DeVane contracted any STDs in prison?" Munch asked, and Don knew he was thinking about the possibility that he had infected Elliot with HIV during the attack.

"No idea," he replied, shaking his head, "but I'm gonna make sure a motion compelling a blood sample for testing is at the top of Novak's list when we get him."

"You don't need to wait for that," John told him. "If there was any DNA from the rape kit, Warner can identify the genetic markers in the virus."

"You're right," the captain realized and made a note to himself, "I'll make sure to ask about that as soon as the test results become available. That's good thinking, John." Looking from one detective to the other, he asked them, "Now, what do you two have for me?"

Fin opened his notebook and read off an account of their movements for the past few hours. "We woke up the parole officer, a guy named Tillery, and he gave us a copy of DeVane's file. The creep hasn't even been on the street for forty-eight hours yet. Then we went to the halfway house where he's supposed to be staying. He hasn't been back since his initial check-in. There's already a warrant out on him for parole violation."

Munch picked the story up from there. "There were three known associates in DeVane's file, his mother, an ex-girlfriend, and some guy DeVane ran with that Elliot liked for an accessory in the assaults twelve years ago but couldn't collar. We couldn't locate any of them at the addresses in the file, so we came back here to see if we could look them up."

Fin broke in again, to finish the story. "There's also a bar he used to hang out at."

"Near the Children's Museum of Manhattan," Munch added in disgust.

"Where else?" was Cragen's sarcastic question.

Fin's tone showed that he shared the sentiment. "We're gonna go there as soon as they open for business. See if someone remembers the perv."

"Ok, sounds like you've covered the bases," Cragen said. "What about dispatch? Why didn't they notify me when the call came in?"

Munch sighed. "Luck of the draw, Captain. Liv's call went through to a relatively new dispatcher. She knew you needed to be informed, but somehow, she never thought that you would want to be called right away. It was after hours, so she put it in a report for her supervisor to call you in the morning."

"Sounds like they need to reevaluate their training, if she never thought to contact me immediately," Cragen said.

"I suggested that to the supervisor," Munch said, "and she kindly informed me that if I didn't like the way they handled things, then I should find a way to get them better pay and benefits so they can attract better qualified people and hold on to the ones they have longer."

Cragen shrugged. "It's a tough job," he said, "and it doesn't really matter how much they pay them, nothing is going to prevent rookie mistakes. It's just a shame that it had to happen on this case."

There was silence in the room for a moment as the captain considered his next words. Munch and Fin waited patiently.

"Look, guys, I'm in something of a bind here. Stabler has asked Olivia to stay off the case, and I'm inclined to honor that request. There's no way he would want anyone else in the office to know the details of what happened either, so most of this investigation is gonna fall on the two of you."

"It's all right, Cap'n," Fin assured him. "We'll do whatever we gotta do to find this bastard and put his ass in jail."

"Are you sure we are the ones who should be running this case?" Munch wondered aloud. "I mean the guy works with us and . . . "

Munch ran out of words, but Cragen nodded his understanding. He had felt the same way, so he gave Munch the same reasoning he had used for himself and with the Chief of Detectives earlier.

"I know what you're trying to say, Munch, and I understand how you feel," he assured the detective, "but I was the only one Elliot would give his statement to, and he knows that means bringing you guys in on the investigation. I really don't think anyone else _can_ handle this case. As for how he feels when he comes back to work, well, we'll just have to deal with that when it happens."

John nodded, and said, "Ok, then, I guess we'll get started tracking down those contacts."

_An Ill Wind_

Kathy looked down at her husband again, and gently wiped away his tears. The nurse had sent an orderly to help move Elliot to the bathroom and back, and having the burly stranger's hands all over him had been too much. Even before the young man left the room, Elliot had begun to sob. The pain from his broken ribs had made matters worse, and, worried that he might do himself further damage, Kathy had paged the nurse who, after consulting the chart, upped Elliot's dose of sedative slightly, hoping to calm him and let him sleep.

Finally, with a deep sigh, he spoke. "Kath, I'm going to need help to get through this."

"I know, El, and I'm gonna be here to help you, I promise," she assured him.

He smiled gratefully and swallowed hard. "I know that, and I really appreciate it, but I meant professional help. I'm gonna have to talk to someone . . . who I can tell everything, and I really don't want you to know everything that happened."

Kathy frowned, then nodded. "I understand. Do you want me to call Father McKay?"

Elliot looked uncertain for a moment, and then he said, "No, I, uh, I've been seeing a shrink for a few weeks now, after something that happened at work. A psychiatrist."

"Oh," in shock, Kathy could think of nothing else to say for a moment.

"I, um . . . I beat someone up, lost control," he admitted in shame. "Pete Breslin. You remember him, and his son, Luke?"

When Kathy nodded, he continued. "Luke was a suspect in an assault case. Turns out, he'd been taking steroids, and in a 'roid rage, he'd punched his best friend. Well, after the arraignment, Pete took Luke into the bathroom and started knocking him around. Some guy came running out, I was there, and he told me what was happening. I went in, pulled Pete off him, and totally lost control. I'm lucky I didn't kill him."

When Elliot didn't speak for a moment or two after that, she asked, "Does this psychiatrist have you on any medication, El? Because if he does, your doctor needs to know."

"No, no drugs," he said. "We just talk. I'm not ready to tell you about what, yet, but maybe someday."

"I see," she replied, wiping a wayward tear from his cheek. "Well, I'm glad you found someone you can talk to. Is it helping?"

"Some," he admitted, "but it's hard. We met on a case; our victim was schizophrenic and she helped us deal with her. She used to be a cop. She and Olivia were partners for a little while."

Kathy frowned when her husband called the shrink 'she.' For some reason, she had automatically assumed it would be a man. Realizing that the doctor was a female gave her a whole new perspective on his statement, and she had to know just what he had meant, "Elliot, when you say you've been seeing her . . . "

"Just professionally, Kathy, I promise," he assured her when he saw her reaction to the knowledge that the shrink in question was a woman. "I'm still not interested in anyone but you. Her name's Rebecca Hendrix. Olivia has the number. Could you call her, and tell her what happened? Please?"

"Just as soon as you close your eyes and go to sleep, I will, El. You have my word."

"You won't go away, will you?"

"No," she promised. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He gave her a small, grateful smile, nestled against the pillow, and closed his eyes.

Kathy looked at her husband as he finally succumbed to sleep, and she felt her heart break. He was ashamed to admit that he needed help, but he was so desperate that he had begged her to make the call. Her own feelings were a jumble, too. She was a little annoyed that he hadn't started dating anyone yet, but she knew she would have been even angrier if he had. She was relieved that he had finally sought help for his problems, but felt betrayed that he hadn't made a real effort before she had left him. And worst of all, she was embarrassingly jealous that he would share his thoughts with a female shrink when he hadn't had a meaningful conversation with her in years.

But she had made a promise, so, when his breathing evened out and his expression relaxed, she gave him a kiss on the temple, picked up the phone, and moved over to the window where she could talk without disturbing him. She still knew Olivia's number by heart, she had memorized it when Elliot and the attractive female had first become partners so that if she ever needed to reach her husband in an emergency and his phone was dead, she could call his partner and maybe find him that way. As she dialed the phone, she thought of what she might say.

_An Ill Wind_

Rebecca Hendrix reached out and smacked the alarm. When it didn't stop, she knocked it to the floor. When it kept ringing, she finally realized it was her phone waking her much too early for her liking.

"Hello?" she said into the receiver.

"Doctor Hendrix, this is Kathy Stabler," said an upset woman on the other end of the line. "You've been counseling my husband, Elliot."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Stabler," Rebecca said with a professional edge to her voice, "my patient records are confidential, so I can't even confirm that for you."

"You don't have to," Kathy said and then rushed on. "Elliot told me that much himself. I'm calling because he asked me to contact you. He's been raped and he's going to need to see you."

She was surprised that she had managed to get it all out. When the phone was ringing, she hadn't been sure she could ever say it, but rushing through the words, she had been able to push them all past her vocal cords without falling apart.

Rebecca counted to ten before she replied. The message was quite a shock, and she didn't want her voice to betray her emotions. Finally, she asked, "Has he been to a hospital?"

"Yes, he's been admitted to Saint Vincent's," Kathy told her. "Room three twenty-seven. He's already reported it and given a statement to the police. He's just here for observation. Please come. He needs you."

Rebecca sighed softly. She was lucky to still have her license after the stunt she pulled with those twins, but without admitting privileges anywhere in the city, she didn't think they'd want her seeing patients while they were in the hospital. Still, she could always stop by as a friend.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," she replied.


	4. The Chase Begins

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Four  
The Chase Begins**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
9:02 A.M. November 19, 2005_

_"Detective Munch?_ _Detective Munch!" _

The whispered words penetrated his sleep, but John Munch still couldn't quite move. A gentle shake solved that.

_"Detective Munch, it's nine o'clock. You left a note for me to wake you when I got in."_

John sat up, blinking in the wan light that came from the squad room and smacked his lips a couple of times trying to get the saliva flowing to dispel the cottonmouth feeling he always got when he snored. He caught a whiff of a rich, dark aroma, and he closed his eyes and turned his head to the left and right, trying to catch and follow the scent. There was a soft throaty chuckle, and he felt and smelled the steam from a cup of coffee under his nose.

"Sweet and light, just how you like it," Tina, one of the day-shift administrative aides softly said as he accepted the mug with a smile. "And it's fresh," she added. "I just made a new pot."

He opened his eyes and looked at her fondly. "Tina, if I hadn't sworn off women when my fourth wife left me, I think I'd say I love you."

"Detective Tutuola is still sleeping. Should I wake him, too?"

After the meeting with Cragen, John had sent his partner off to the crib to sleep. Then he'd made a few calls to the former employers of Roger DeVane's three known associates and found that, while they all had Saturday hours, none of them would be open for business until ten. When he Googled all three names, he had a hit with DeVane's mother, Ellen. She had died eight years ago. The address and personal details were right, so he knew he'd found a match. Then, considering who his suspect had been hanging with twelve years ago, Munch searched Bert Green in the police computer. He wasn't at all surprised to find the creep was in the system, doing time at Riker's for rape. Then, since neither Bert nor Mom were going anywhere and he'd hit a dead end with the ex-girlfriend until ten o'clock, he'd decided to grab a couple of hours' shuteye for himself.

Munch looked over at his dozing partner and said, "Nah, let him sleep a little longer. I still have a few calls to make."

"I'm awake," the Fin-shaped lump on the other cot growled and sat up with the blanket still around his shoulders. "I can help you, besides, if you had wanted to let me sleep, you'd have found somewhere else to bed down yourself."

At Munch's quizzical look, he explained, "Your snoring kept me awake."

"I do not snore," Munch replied innocently.

"It would have been quieter in a subway tunnel," Fin insisted.

With a chuckle, Tina confirmed, "You were snoring when I came in."

Munch sighed in defeat. "Betrayed by the fairer sex yet again."

"Detective Tutuola, would you like a cup of coffee?" Tina asked, ignoring Munch's feigned histrionics.

"Yeah, but I'll get it myself in a minute, thanks." With a nod to the young woman as she left, Fin turned to his partner and asked, "So what did you find out?"

Munch gave him the results of his early morning phone calls, and between the two of them, they quickly decided that Fin would work on running down a current home address for Alice Richardson, DeVane's ex-girlfriend while Munch called the bank again to see if she was still employed there.

_Room 327_

_St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan_

_9:15 A.M. November 19, 2005_

Soft voices filtered through the darkness. He wasn't alone, but he couldn't see who was there, and for some reason, that frightened him. He awoke with a start.

"Elliot?"

He looked around and saw his wife. "Kath?" Suddenly, the events of the previous evening came flooding back into his mind and he was gasping for breath and trembling.

"Hey, El, you're safe now," Kathy reassured him, and moved closer. When she stood by the bed, he leaned into her, and she put her arms around him. He clung to her with his good arm, and she leaned over and placed a kiss on his temple. "El, it's all right. You're safe here. No one can hurt you now."

She gave him a few minutes to come to that realization on his own and then said, "I called Rebecca. I like her. I'm glad you're letting her help you."

Rebecca moved forward into Elliot's line of sight, and he frowned. Looking up at his wife, he asked, "What did she tell you?"

"Nothing really. Mostly we talked about the kids and me."

Frowning harder, he asked, "What did you tell her?"

With some humor in her voice, Rebecca said gently, "That would be privileged information, Detective. How are you feeling?"

His face clouded again, and his breathing became erratic once more. He dropped his head and almost whispered, "Not so good."

Kathy gave him a gentle squeeze and he felt Rebecca's presence close to the bed. "It'll take time," the doctor said, "but you'll get there."

"El," Kathy said softly in his ear. "I'm going to leave you two to talk for a while. I'm heading back to Mom's to check on the kids, and then I need to call Maureen and make sure she knows you're here."

"The kids? Aren't they in school by now?"

"It's Saturday, Sweetheart" she told him. "Dickie and Lizzie are probably watching cartoons, Kathleen is in her room reading a book, and they're all pretending for Mom's sake that they're not worried about you. If Maureen has called, she's either decided to go there and wait for news with them or be tough like her dad and just go on about her business until someone tells her she has a reason to worry."

Elliot smiled slightly. "She's always been a daddy's girl, hasn't she?"

Kathy smiled back. "Who can blame her? She has a pretty great dad."

Looking up at her, he suddenly implored, "Kathy, please, don't tell them what happened."

"Don't worry," she reassured him, "I won't. But they do need to know that you've been hurt. All I'm gonna tell them is that you were hurt on the job, that someone beat you up, but you're going to be fine, ok?"

Reluctantly, Elliot nodded.

"Good. That's settled, then. I'll call you before I come back, to see if you feel up to a visit from them."

"All right," he agreed.

She gave him another kiss and a gentle hug, said goodbye to Rebecca and was gone.

When the door closed behind Kathy, Rebecca pulled up a chair and asked, "Now, where do you want to start?"

_An Ill Wind_

"What have you found out?" Cragen asked when Munch and Fin walked into his office at ten in the morning.

"DeVane's mom is dead," Munch said, "and his running buddy, Bert Green is at Riker's Island for a string of rapes in the Bronx back in ninety-eight."

"His ex-girlfriend is still at the same bank, though," Fin added. "She's worked her way up from teller to being an accounts manager, and we're in luck. They're open from ten 'til three."

"We'll start with the bank, and then head out to Riker's. We'll save the bar where he liked to hang out for last. There's a better chance of finding someone who remembers him during happy hour," Munch finished.

"Ok," Cragen said. "Check in with Liv and make sure she's good to go on the cases she's taking over from you before you leave." The two detectives nodded and turned to leave. "And keep me posted!" he called as they walked out of his office.

_An Ill Wind_

"How do you feel about what happened to you Elliot?" Rebecca asked after her patient had finished telling her what Roger DeVane had done to him.

"I . . . I don't know what to say," Elliot replied with a sniffle. He'd grown tearful a couple of times during his story and had struggled to compose himself. Now, he was reluctant to fall apart again, even in front of his shrink. A lifetime of being the tough guy, drilled into him by regular beatings from his old man, was hard to shake, even when he was willing to open up.

"Say anything, Elliot. Just tell me how you feel."

"Helpless," he admitted, his voice cracking on the one word. He gulped some air, wincing as his cracked ribs made their presence known, and tried to continue in an even tone. "I couldn't do anything to stop him. I never, not in a million years, would have thought something like this would happen to me. I couldn't . . . I was so stunned . . . I couldn't do anything."

"It's hard for men to imagine themselves in such a situation, but you know it happens," Rebecca reminded him. "Probably more often than we think. What else do you feel, Elliot?"

"Guilty."

If the bald statement surprised the psychiatrist, she didn't show it.

"Why?"

He swallowed hard. "She called me . . . a dozen times that day. She knew he was out and she was scared. Her last day on earth, she was scared that he would come after her. She called me because she thought I could keep her safe, but I got there too late, and I couldn't save her. She begged him for my life, and she apologized to me for what DeVane had done. I heard her crying while he raped her, and I couldn't stop him. He killed her. I was right there when he did it, and I couldn't save her."

As he was speaking, his voice had risen in volume and pitch, and though his tirade had to have made his ribs hurt, the emotional pain was so great that he seemed not to notice. Rebecca knew he was close to tears again, so she gave him a minute to calm down. She had discovered early on that he hated to let her see him cry and that if it happened more than once or twice in a session, he would quickly throw his walls up, shut her out, and end the session.

"And how does that make you feel?"

For a long minute, he stared at the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Moisture gathered in his eyes, and slowly, two tears slid down his face. Finally, in a choked voice, he said, "Like a coward," and dropped his gaze to his lap.

"Why, Elliot?"

"Because I'm mad as hell at the sick son of a bitch!" he shouted. "I want to tear him apart with my bare hands, but I'm too damned frightened to do anything about it. I'm scared all the time, now, because of what he did to me, and it never goes away. I'm afraid of _him_. I'm _afraid_ of him and that pisses me off!"

He caught his breath and covered his ribs with his good arm.

Rebecca leaned forward and placed a hand over his. "It will take time, Elliot," she said, "but the fear will abate. Every day, you will feel more like your old self, and one day, you will realize that you have just . . . moved on."

"Yeah, but Muriel Faringo won't," he said, pulling his hand away.

"That isn't your fault," she told him, sitting back and letting him have his personal space when he wouldn't accept the small comfort she offered.

"Try telling that to her parents!"

"Elliot, he beat the hell out of you," she said. "A busted nose, concussion, cracked ribs, broken ankle! Then you were cuffed to the banister. What do you think you could have done?"

"Well I got myself loose after it happened, didn't I? Why couldn't I have broken free before then? I should have done something!"

"Like what?"

He struggled for words for several seconds and then said, "I don't know. I didn't know what to do then, either. When I came to and he was gone, I knew what I had to do to get out of the cuffs, but when he was there, hurting me, hurting her, I couldn't think. I guess . . . I guess I panicked."

"Or you were in shock."

He shrugged, not willing to let himself off the hook so easily.

Rebecca wanted to keep her patient talking, but she knew she had to change tack. If he felt himself becoming emotional again, Elliot would probably send her on her way, and she really felt she needed to take him to some kind of resolution, no matter how small.

"Elliot, I want to do a role-play with you," she finally said. "I want you to imagine that I am Olivia, and that what happened to you happened to her instead."

"No," he flatly refused. "No way. No, thank you. The reality is bad enough, I do _not_ need to imagine that this happened to one of my friends."

"Elliot, if you want me to help you, you have to work with me on this. I promise I won't push you to talk about it any more today, but I want to know what you would say if it had happened to somebody you care about," she explained. "Please, I promise it will help."

It took him a moment, but in the end, he nodded. He trusted her enough to go along with it.

"Ok. Close your eyes, and imagine you're talking with Olivia. She's just told you about what happened."

He nodded, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths wincing slightly as he did so. When he seemed ready to begin, Rebecca assumed the role of her friend and former partner.

"I let her down, Elliot," she said emotionally, trying to relay the same guilt and regret she had heard in his words and tone a few moments before.

He opened his eyes and looked at Rebecca. "This is crazy," he said shaking his head. "What good is this play-acting going to do?"

"You have to try, Elliot," she told him patiently. "The least you can do is go through the motions, give it a chance. Now, please, close your eyes and we'll start over."

He gave her a sullen look but did as he was told.

When he was settled again, she tried once more to get him to engage in the activity. "I should have been able to save her," she said with regret.

"You did . . . the best you could," Elliot stumbled self-consciously over the words. "That's all anyone can ask of you. Look, Doc, this isn't doing it for me. I feel ridiculous."

But his eyes were still closed, and Rebecca knew if she stayed in character he might eventually fall into the role she had planned for him.

"It was my job to help her, and I failed," she said. "She died because I screwed up."

"Look, you tried," he said. "He killed her, you tried to stop him. It didn't work out, but it's not your fault."

"Yes it is!" she insisted, trying to convey all the emotions that he had displayed during their session. "She called me to protect her, Elliot, and I let her down. I panicked, and I couldn't help her, and she's dead, and it's my fault!"

"So you panicked!" Elliot shouted back, fully into the role now despite grimacing at the pain it caused his ribs. "You're human. It's not your fault. You did your best to save her, and that's all you can do. No one can ask you to do more than your best or to be more than you are!"

Rebecca took an emotional step back. "So now what?" she asked more calmly, easing out of the role-play, knowing she already had what she wanted.

"You accept it and move on," Elliot said. "You did your best and it wasn't enough. That's not your fault. All you can do . . . " his voice took on a tone of wonder, " . . . is accept it and move on." He opened his eyes. "That's a hell of a lot easier said than done, Doc."

Rebecca nodded. "I know, but now that you know where you need to go, you can start working on how to get there."

They were both quiet for several moments, and then Elliot asked, "So, what do I do first?"

"Two things," Rebecca said, and at his surprised look, she explained, "You need to start small and take this one step at a time. I just want you to start off with some positive self-talk."

"You want me to talk to myself?"

"Yes, but it's not a running dialog," she replied, a little amused by his confusion. "I'm giving you two very specific messages to repeat to yourself whenever the need arises."

"Ok," he agreed, still sounding doubtful, "What are they?"

"Well, when you start to feel frightened, I want you to tell yourself, 'It's over. I'm safe now.'"

"It's over. I'm safe now." He frowned. "That's it?"

"You could continue on that same theme," she suggested, "but I'd rather you stick to just that. For one thing, a short simple message is easier to remember, and also, I have noticed that when you allow yourself to ramble on, you tend to digress into negative thoughts and get stuck there. So, 'It's over. I'm safe now,' is enough."

"Ok, then, 'It's over. I'm safe now.' What else?"

"When you start feeling guilty, you need to remind yourself that you aren't to blame. Tell yourself exactly what you would have told Olivia when we were doing the role-play. Do you remember what that was?"

He closed his eyes and thought hard. "I said she's human, she did the best she could. It's not her fault, and no one can expect her to do more than her best."

"That's right," Rebecca agreed. "You believe it, don't you?"

He shrugged.

"Well, would you lie to Liv? If you thought she was responsible for a person's death, would you tell her she wasn't?"

"Hell, no, but that's Liv."

"And we're talking about you, but what you said is still true, isn't it?"

"I don't know, Doc," he resisted her logic.

"Why? Do you think you should be held to a different standard? What makes you so special?"

"I'm stronger, I'm bigger . . . I'm . . . "

"You're what? A man?"

"Well, yeah, I guess that's it. I should have been able to fend him off. He never should have got the drop on me like that. I made a mistake. I should have . . . "

"Stop," Rebecca interrupted him firmly. "You made a mistake. You're human. It's not your fault. You did the best you could, and no one can ask more than that."

"But if I had just . . . "

"Stop," she said again. "You made a mistake. You're human. It's not your fault. You did the best you could, and no one can ask more than that."

"But, Doc . . ."

"Stop," she repeated, more forcefully this time. "You made a mistake. You're human. It's not your fault. You did the best you could, and no one can ask more than that."

He sighed in resignation. "Ok, message received. You know, Captain Cragen tried to tell me that when he took my statement, but I guess I just wasn't ready to believe it."

"Oh, you're still not ready to believe it, Elliot," she told him. "But at least now you are ready to hear it. You'll have to hear it hundreds, maybe thousands of times before you really believe it, but you've made a start. Now, what are you supposed to say to yourself when you get scared?"

"It's over. I'm safe now."

"Good, and when you feel guilty?"

"I made a mistake. It's not my fault. It . . . I don't remember."

"That's because you're so used to being in control, of yourself, your emotions, the suspects you interview, the situations you put yourself in, and so on, that you find it impossible to accept that some things are beyond your control." She opened the drawer to the bedside table and hunted around until she found the sheets of writing paper and the pencil that were provided in every room. Handing them over to Elliot, she said, "Write this down. Study it. Memorize it."

When he nodded that he was ready, she repeated the mantra for him a phrase at a time so he could get it all down. "I made a mistake. I'm human. It's not my fault. I did my best, and no one can expect more than that."

He put the pencil down and picked up the paper. As he held it in his hand, staring at it, tears began to slide down his face again.

"Elliot? What's wrong?"

He shrugged. "I just feel . . . sad, I guess, for Muriel. It should have been enough. I should have been able to . . . "

"Stop it, Elliot. You made a . . . "

"I made a mistake," he nodded, and continued reading from the sheet of paper, saying the words without conviction. "I'm human. It's not my fault. I did my best, and no one can expect more than that." He smiled up at her sadly. "You're right, I don't really believe it yet, but if it keeps me from thinking about all the things I should have done differently, I guess it helps."

She patted him on the shoulder. "Give it time, Elliot. It's going to be hard for a while, but it will get better. And it's ok to feel sad, or angry, but not at yourself. This wasn't your fault, ok?"

He nodded, and finally adopted a slightly more positive tone. "I think you're right, about it getting better," he agreed, "if only because I can't stand to feel this way forever."

"Now, I have one more piece of advice for you before I go," Rebecca said as she pulled the covers gently up around him. "Get some sleep so you're alert when your kids come to visit."

"I will," he promised, "and thanks for coming all the way out here to help me."

"There's nothing to thank me for," she said from the door as she switched off the light. "You did all the hard work."

_Citizen's Bank_

_328 W. 83rd St., Manhattan_

_10:01 A.M., November 19, 2005_

"So, how do you want to handle this?" Fin asked his partner as he and Munch approached the bank where Alice Richardson worked.

"I say we start out like we believe she has no idea where he is and didn't know about what he was doing twelve years ago until he got busted," Munch suggested. "If we come down hard on her right away, it will just piss her off, and if she's undecided about helping us, we'll lose her from the beginning."

"Sounds like a plan," Fin agreed. "You better do the talking."

"Why me?" John asked, not that he really cared one way or the other.

"'Cause you're better at being nice than I am," Fin answered sarcastically, and, though he kept it to himself, Munch had to agree.

As they entered the bank, Munch approached the security guard at the door and flashed his badge. "Alice Richardson?" he inquired quietly, and the guard directed him to a desk off to the right occupied by a pretty, petite woman with long brown hair.

"Ms. Richardson?" Munch said as he approached the desk.

"Yes, gentlemen, please, have a seat," she said in a sweet cultured voice and offered them a friendly smile. "How can I help you today?"

Munch showed her his identification and said, "We have some questions about a man named Roger DeVane. We understand you used to date him."

Alice became instantly guarded and looked around to see if any of her colleagues had noticed the badge or overheard her conversation. She certainly did _not_ look happy to see Munch and Fin anymore.

"I haven't seen him since he was arrested," she said, sotto voce, her Bronx upbringing suddenly apparent in her accent. "I didn't know what he was doin' then an' I don't wanna know now. We'd only been on a coupla dates, but he liked to come in an' visit me on my lunch. People here knew him, an' when he was arrested, they shut me out. I lost all my friends overnight 'cause of that sick freak, an' I almost lost my job 'cause no one wanted to work around me. If I _never_ see him again, it'll be too soon."

"I see," John said sympathetically. "Did he try to have any contact with you while he was in prison?"

She looked even more uncomfortable than before and said, "He sent me a coupla letters, but I never wrote back."

"Do you still have the letters?"

"Hell no!" she said emphatically. "I threw them away without even openin' them. Once I found out what that creep was into, I didn't want nothin' more to do with him."

Munch nodded, trying to show that he understood how she felt. "I don't blame you," he told her.

The three of them sat quietly for a bit, and Alice picked at her nails as she watched Fin make some notes on his pad. When he saw that his partner was through writing, John started speaking again.

"I think you should know he's out on parole. Do you think it's at all likely that he will try to contact you?" He tried to keep his tone neutral, not wanting to upset her. She was obviously hiding something, but whether it was from them or the people who worked around her, he didn't know, yet.

She sat there silently for a long moment, chipping away at her nails, nervously flaking the enamel off her manicure.

Munch leaned forward and whispered, "Ms. Richardson, I am not interested in causing you any trouble or embarrassment. I just need to know if he tries to contact you. He's wanted for rape and murder. He hasn't been to his halfway house since he first checked in."

She continued peeling the polish off one thumbnail.

He placed his business card on the desk in front of her and said, "Please, if he contacts you, call me immediately. It's important."

He stood to leave, and following his lead, Fin got up to follow.

"Wait!" Alice blurted in a sharp whisper. Munch and Fin both moved closer, and she spoke rapidly in a low voice. "He was already here, yesterday afternoon, to get something out of his safety deposit box."

"Do you have any idea what it was?"

"No, but he said he'd be back, when he'd . . . " She appeared to be trying to recall something, then her eyes brightened. "When he'd finished what he'd started. It sounded weird to me, but that's what he said, 'I'll be back when I've finished what I started.'"

Munch and Fin shared a look, and each knew what the other was thinking. It could well be that the attack last night was DeVane's idea of finishing what he'd started. He'd finished the assault on Muriel Faringo and took his revenge on the cop who interrupted him twelve years before. Now, he could come walking into the bank at any moment.

"I'll call Novak for a warrant. We've got to get a look in that box," Munch said and started out across the lobby.

"Right," Fin agreed, then he asked Alice, "You got a speed dial on that phone?"

"Yeah."

"You know how to program it?"

"Yeah."

He gave her his own card started backing away as he said, "Put my cell number in it. We'll be waiting out on the street for a warrant to search his safety deposit box. If he shows up in the meantime, call me, got it?"

"Yeah," she agreed and started punching buttons on the phone. "Wait," she whispered harshly to Fin, "where are you guys goin'?"

"Out on the street somewhere, so he won't see us and run." With that, Fin turned and walked briskly out of the bank, close on his partner's heels.


	5. A Sharp Left Turn

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Five  
A Sharp Left Turn**_

OOO

_Room 327  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
11:21 A.M., November 19, 2005_

Olivia cringed as she pushed open the door to the hospital room and heard the sound of retching. "El?" she called as she hesitated on the threshold, not sure whether to enter the room or not.

"Stay there a minute," he called back to her.

She heard him heaving again, and had to swallow hard to resist the urge to be sick herself. A few moments later, a nurse carrying an emesis basin came out around the privacy curtain and went into the en-suite bathroom. Soon after that, Elliot said, "Ok."

Liv went around to the bed and found her partner perspiring and breathing heavily. He had both arms wrapped around his ribs in a protective gesture.

"Is it the anti-HIV meds?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "Right on cue, too. Last time, the nausea kicked in about twelve hours after the first dose, but this time it's worse.''

"Really, how so?"

"Well, for starters, puking your guts out when you have busted up ribs kinda sucks."

Olivia made a face and said, "Ok, too much information." Then she looked at him sympathetically and asked, "Are they giving you anything for the pain?"

"Yeah, in the IV. It's just strenuous physical activity, like breathing, that makes it hurt." He made his complaint with a sardonic smile, and she knew that he didn't feel he needed more meds, so she let the matter drop.

"Kathy called me."

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "What did she have to say?"

"Well, the kids really want to come see you. Maureen is staying at the house to help her grandma so Kathy can spend more time with you, at least until you're feeling better. That's about it."

Elliot nodded. "Did she tell you I saw Rebecca?"

"Yeah. You had her call me for the number, remember?"

"I know that, I just didn't know if you realized she had already come by."

There was a heavy silence in the room for a few minutes, neither of them knowing what to say.

Eventually, Liv spoke. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

Elliot shook his head.

They fell quiet again until Elliot said, "So, I guess Munch and Fin are busy running down DeVane?"

"Yeah, I've taken over a couple of their cases in the meantime."

Once more, the conversation ground to a halt, and the longer they waited, the harder it was for either of them to think of something to say. Twice, they made eye contact and then looked away quickly.

Finally, Olivia broke the silence. "Look, El, you know I want to ask how you're doing, and I know you're miserable, physically, and emotionally. If you've seen Rebecca, I know you're probably already spent and don't need to rehash those feelings again. So, if you could just throw me a bone, tell me something, even lie to me, at least it would be over, and we could find something else to discuss."

He looked up at her, and she didn't know what to make of his expression. She had expected him to be defensive, maybe even angry, but he actually looked like he was willing to talk for once.

"I won't lie to you, Liv, but I'm not sure I can tell you what you want to hear."

She moved to sit in the chair beside the bed and said, "That's ok. So, how are you?"

He took a slow breath in and out and quietly admitted something neither of them had ever thought she would hear him say.

"I'm scared, Liv. All the time, I feel afraid."

"You've been through a traumatic experience, Elliot, that's to be expected." They both knew it was trite, but true.

He nodded. "Knowing that doesn't help much right now," he told her. "I woke up this morning, and heard voices. Kathy and Rebecca were talking. Just knowing other people were in here and I couldn't see them sent me into a panic."

"Then what?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I opened my eyes, saw it was them, and it took a while, but I was ok."

"So you're not really scared all the time," Olivia pointed out.

"I'm not _terrified_ all the time," he corrected. "Talking to Rebecca has helped a little." He gave a sarcastic little grunt of a laugh and said, "I'm supposed to tell myself it's over and I'm safe now whenever it gets bad."

"Does it work?"

He considered his answer for a moment, reluctant to admit it was doing some good, but finally he conceded, "It takes a couple of minutes, but yeah, it helps a little. Then someone drops something out in the hall or one of the nurses comes creeping in here on those damned rubber-soled shoes and scares the hell out of me, and I feel like a kid again."

"Like a kid?" Olivia's confusion was apparent in her voice.

For a moment, his eyes grew wide, then he had to look away. He couldn't meet his partner's steady compassionate gaze any longer. He had never intended to broach this particular subject with her, but now, with three careless words from his mouth, it was just laying there, like a big, fat, dead elephant in the middle of the room. He didn't know what to say to her, but he wasn't sure he wanted to back away from it either. She'd always been so frank and honest about her own background, and he'd always felt a little guilty about keeping so many secrets from her. And, unlike the situation with Muriel Faringo, this guilty feeling _was_ his fault. It was something completely within his control. He'd opened the door, granted, it had happened accidentally, but now all he had to do was walk through it.

"Look, Elliot, you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to," she said gently. "Just know that I'm here, any time you need me."

"My dad," he blurted out.

She waited. He spent long minutes smoothing wrinkles out of the sheet with his index finger, and she waited as if she had nothing better to do than hear whatever he felt able to tell her. Whenever he pushed one ripple of fabric down, another would rise up right beside it, so he would have to run that one down, too. He could go on forever, and there would always be another. It was kind of like his life, really. Whenever he smoothed one wrinkle out, he'd turn around and find another. It was no wonder he'd finally lost it. At least if he told Liv about his dad, one of the wrinkles would actually be gone, and he could stop feeling guilty about the secrets he was keeping from her.

That realization loosened his tongue, and, still chasing wrinkles in the sheet, he finally confided in his partner.

"Most of the time, my old man was pissed off about a lot of things," he said. "He would . . . "

The words were so hard to find. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, silently supporting him.

"When I was a kid, I didn't even know I was being abused," he admitted. "I idolized my dad, but I was always afraid of him. I just thought I was a bad . . . a bad little boy. That's what he always told me, and I believed him. He said I was a rotten kid and a failure and a . . . a pansy. He liked that word. He used it ever time I cried. And he used his belt to . . . to make me cry a lot."

It was impossible for him to look at her. He couldn't bear to see her face, to get a glimpse into what she might be thinking. He folded his arms protectively around himself and moved his gaze to the far wall of the room.

"I learned to be on guard all the time. I had ears like a bat. I could hear him breathing in the next room, and I could be upstairs doing homework and hear him get out of the easy chair in the den. Then my heart would be in my throat, and I'd feel sick, and I'd hold my breath until I was sure he wasn't coming after me."

Finally, he looked at her. He didn't like the tears he saw in her eyes, tears for him, but to his relief, he saw no judgment there. She might not have understood why he kept his secrets, but she didn't care either.

After a few long moments, she blinked her tears away, smiled sadly, and said, "You survived it, El, and you'll survive this, too."

He didn't feel much like smiling back, but he did nod in agreement. For a long time after that, they just sat there, two good friends comfortable in one another's company. After what may have been hours, or perhaps only minutes, Elliot spoke again.

"I'm lucky to have you as my partner, Liv, and I'm grateful for your friendship. There's not another person in the world I could have gone to last night. Any time you want to know how I am, just ask me, and I'll try to give you a straight answer."

The relief of having given up his burden was amazing, and he knew it would take a while for him to get used to the feeling, but he also knew, now that he had told her his secret, there was no going back. She'd heard the worst thing he'd had to tell her, and she'd accepted it, just as she had always accepted him. He knew he could trust her with anything, and from now on, he owed her complete honesty because of that.

She didn't know what to say back to that, so she didn't say anything. She just reached out and gave his good hand a gentle squeeze, then picked up the TV remote from the bedside table and said, "Is there anything worth watching on TV at this time on a Saturday?"

Now, Elliot felt like smiling, just a little. "Isn't there some rule that there always has to be a western?"

_Interview Room  
Riker's Island Correctional Facility  
11:35 A.M., November 19, 2005_

"Yeah, I knew him. We met upstate," Bert Green said on a yawn and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve when Munch and Fin asked him about Roger DeVane in one of the visitor's rooms at Riker's Island Correctional Facility. "I let him watch me a couple of times, but he didn't wanna to join in."

"Watch you?" Fin asked.

"With the ladies," Green supplied with a lascivious grin as he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. "He really wanted to watch me with my girlfriend, but she said no. But that was ok, because I was getting plenty on the side that she didn't know about."

"Meaning the women you raped. How romantic," Munch said sarcastically as he shared a knowing look with Fin. "And did he ever let you watch him?"

"I suppose he would have if I had asked, but I didn't want to, man, that sick freak was into hurtin' little girls." Green sat bouncing and fidgeting in his chair like a high school kid watching the clock two minutes before the final bell.

"And I suppose you think that's a whole lot worse than raping a dozen grown women, huh?" Fin asked in a disgusted tone.

"Yeah, it is. See, with a woman, if she really don't want it, she's got a chance to fight back. Hey, I could really use a cigarette, either of you guys smoke?"

"'Fraid not," Fin said, obviously not sorry about the fact that he couldn't help the guy out.

"It's kind of hard to fight back with a knife at your throat, isn't it?" Munch said, looking up from Green's file where he had just read the M.O. of his crimes.

"I guess they just didn't want to get away bad enough," Green said with a shrug as he dabbed at his watery eyes. "They still coulda fought harder, made it a little more exciting, but those little girls, they couldn't defend themselves. That's what got Rog off. No matter how hard they fought, he could still do whatever he wanted with them. That's just sick. Besides, they were kids. I got a niece, she was about the age of the girls Rog was doin'. I told him if he ever touched her, I'd slice him open from his throat to his balls."

"Well, I guess you can't be all bad," Munch said insincerely, "at least you look out for your own."

Green nodded and a shudder passed through him. "You bet your ass I do."

"All right then," Munch said with a faint nod in Fin's direction. "We need to know anything you can remember about where DeVane liked to hang out, what he liked to do when he wasn't stalking and torturing little girls, anybody he spent time with, and we need to know now."

Green laughed at him and asked, "What do I get out of it?"

Grabbing his arm and shoving the sleeve of his prison uniform up past his elbow to expose the needle tracks, Fin said, "We won't tell the warden to toss your cell and look for your works before he lets you go back to it."

As if he had known all along what his partner was going to do, Munch added, "And if you start talking now, you might even get back to your cell in time to take your next fix without making a mess of your veins."

Of course, both cops knew their promises were lies, they were obligated to report Green's drug habit, but they were sure the warden would wait long enough to search Green's cell to leave some doubt in the man's mind about whether they had actually sold him out. That way, there was a chance that if they needed to speak to him again, he would still be cooperative.

Green remained reluctant to talk, not because he felt any loyalty to DeVane, but because he didn't like being used by the cops. Nevertheless, he figured giving up a few names would buy him the time to pass his works on to a friend to hold for him until the guards had tossed his cell. Green was no fool, he knew the cops weren't going to look the other way on his heroin habit. If they didn't report it to the warden, it could mean trouble for them.

"There was this broad at a tavern in Manhattan, some red-headed babe that DeVane was really into," Bert told them. "I don't remember her name, but it was Irish. He said she was the only grown woman he'd ever been able to get a hard-on for . . . because she looked so much like a little girl."

_An Ill WInd_

"Shhh, I think he's sleeping."

Even when she whispered, Elliot could recognize the voice of his oldest daughter, and, delighted to know the kids had come to see him, he pressed the button that raised the bed. "I'm awake."

He was relieved to have the IV out of his arm, knowing how much that would upset his children, especially Kathleen. They'd removed it when they took him down to have more x-rays of his wrist and ankle after Olivia had left, but he wished the bruising on his face wasn't so bad. He'd seen himself in the mirror when he'd finally decided to shave after lunch, and he knew he wasn't a pretty sight.

"Oh, Daddy!" Kathleen gasped, and the tears welled up in her eyes immediately. She was the sensitive one.

"It's all right, Baby," he soothed her, and when she got close enough, he pulled her into a hug. "Shhhh. I'm ok. It's just some bumps and bruises."

"And a concussion, broken nose, cracked ribs, fractured ankle, and broken bones and damaged ligaments in your hand, right, Dad? Oh, and a dislocated thumb!" Maureen, so like her mother, wasn't going to let him gloss over anything just to spare them.

"Yeah, but enough about that," he told her sternly, hating that she was starting to worry about adult problems. "It's nothing that won't heal." He knew he could trust Kathy not to tell them what they didn't have any business knowing, so he wasn't worried that she might mention the rest, but he didn't want his children dwelling on what was wrong with him. He wanted them to know he would be all right.

"Did they get the guy who did it?" Dickie wanted to know.

"Nah, not yet, but every cop in New York is looking for him, so it's only a matter of time," Elliot assured his son.

"When they do get him, I hope they beat him to a pulp!" Lizzie said emphatically.

"Lizzie!" Kathleen gasped in horror. "What an awful thing to say. Shame on you!"

"Well, it's true!" Lizzie insisted. "After what he did to Dad, I hope they shoot him, and if you don't feel the same way, then shame on _you_!"

Growing up side by side with her twin brother had made Elizabeth Stabler more of a tomboy than her two older sisters. She was also more vocal and opinionated. Maureen, the eldest, was content just to watch the conflict as long as they didn't come to blows, but Kathleen, the middle child, needed to make herself heard.

"First of all, what I feel is none of your business, and second, even if you do feel that way, a girl shouldn't say such terrible things."

"So, it would have been ok for Dickie to say because he's a boy? Puh-leeze!" Lizzie snapped back.

"Leave me out of this," Dickie said, backing away toward a safe spot in a neutral corner.

"Well . . . "

"Stop it!" Elliot broke in and struggled to cover a grimace of pain as his ribs objected to the shouting. With the kids quiet, he continued in a softer tone that didn't aggravate his injuries. "First of all, Kathleen, it is not your place to correct your sister. Trust me, when she gets too far out of line, your mother and I will deal with her. That's our job."

"Nyah!" Lizzie taunted and stuck her tongue out.

"Now, you just hold on a minute, young lady," Elliot caught her before she could get too smug. "In this case I happen to agree with your sister. Having those thoughts is one thing, but saying them aloud can be dangerous, and I think you need to mention it next time you go to confession, understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Lizzie agreed glumly.

"What do you think they should do with him, Dad?" Dickie asked, clearly interested in what his father had to say.

Elliot would have been content to hear that his colleagues had gunned DeVane down in the street like a rabid dog, but he knew better than to be that frank with his children. It would be best to stick with the party line. "The police are supposed to catch criminals, not punish them," he explained. "They should apprehend him using only necessary force."

"Yeah, and once you're feeling better, I'll bet you'd love to have five minutes in a room alone with him, wouldn't you, Dad?" Maureen pushed.

"You know what? I'll let you know when you're old enough to talk to me that way," he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes. His oldest daughter was about to turn twenty-one, and she thought she was so grown up, but he still didn't like knowing that she was mature enough to get into his head like that and say what was on his mind.

"It's all right, Dad," she said understandingly, giving him the same measured look he had given her. "I feel the same way." She moved close and placed a kiss on his cheek, then draped a protective arm around his shoulders. "But most of all I'm glad you're going to be ok."

He smiled at her, grateful to end the conversation, and in a bid to change the subject, asked, "So, how are things at school?"

All four of them tried to answer at once, and he had to laugh despite the pain from his ribs.

_Mac's Tavern  
463 Amsterdam Ave., Manhattan  
6:32 P.M., November 19, 2005_

"Yeah, I remember him," Lenny Davis said as he handed the photo of Roger DeVane back to Munch. "Haven't seen him in, oh, about ten years, I guess, since he was arrested, whenever that was."

"It's been twelve years," Fin told him. "He just got out on parole and he's already wanted on a fresh rape/homicide."

The bartender glowered at the detectives and then called to one of the waitresses to take over at the bar. After escorting the two policemen into the back office, he shut the door and asked, "What the hell are you trying to do to me? Look out there. This isn't some crummy bar for whores and junkies. Mac's is a neighborhood tavern. It's clean and bright. I don't allow fighting or vulgar behavior, I stop serving when my patrons have had enough, and if they aren't fit to drive, I call them a cab. You can bring the whole family here to eat buffalo wings and watch Monday night football. When DeVane was busted, my business fell off for weeks. You think it won't happen again if you start blurting words like rape and homicide at the main bar? Be straight with me, what do you want?"

Fin cut his partner a look, and when Munch gave a nod, he began with a sigh. "We have a source that says DeVane had the hots for one of your waitresses, a red-haired, young-looking Irish girl, but he couldn't give us a name. We need to know who she was, and we'll need to talk to any of your patrons he might have been especially friendly with."

The bartender nodded and took out a battered leather address book. "I don't remember him getting chummy with any of the customers, but Annie O'Keefe was pretty hot for him, at least until he got busted."

Munch's phone rang and he stepped into a corner of the room to take the call.

As he continued talking, the bartender copied down a name and address and handed it over. "I actually had to threaten to fire her before she would stop hanging all over him and do her job. She got married to some Wall Street type about ten years ago and quit. I don't know if that's the right address any more, but that's the last I heard of her. If anyone here knew DeVane, she did."

"Thanks," Fin said as he accepted and read the paper then tucked it into his notebook. Handing over a copy of his business card, he added, "If DeVane shows up here, serve him like you would any other customer. Then dial 911. Tell them to contact Detectives Tutuola and Munch at Manhattan SVU. Ok?"

"And you'll come arrest him on the premises and I'll be operating in the red for the next three months, right?"

"If we bust him here, we'll make sure you get some positive press for your bravery and sense of civic duty," Munch said, and looking to his partner said, "We have to go. They've found another victim, and it looks like our guy was involved."

"Thanks for your help, man," Fin said as he left the office, "and remember, if he shows up here, call us!"

_An Ill Wind_

"So, have you been having a nice visit?" Kathy called as she entered the hospital room to find her husband and children laughing together. She sat at the foot of Elliot's bed and put a Bloomingdale's bag on the floor.

"Yeah," Elliot grinned at her. "Thanks for bringing them by. Where have you been?"

"Playing hide and seek with your doctor."

"Yeah?" Elliot couldn't hide his confusion and uncertainty.

"He's releasing you to my care for the weekend, and he made an appointment for you Monday morning with a surgeon to take care of your hand."

"But, Kath, I can't even dress myself yet," he told her, his apprehension showing. "I . . . I'm not ready to go home."

He was doing his best to breathe slowly through his mouth because he didn't want his kids to see how frightened he was. He knew he was unsuccessful when Lizzie put her hand over his and said, "It's ok, Dad, we're not going to drop you off at the house and leave you all alone. We're moving back, at least until you're able to take care of yourself again."

He smiled down at her and felt the heat of embarrassment warm his face.

"Yeah, Daddy," Kathleen agreed. "Whatever problems you and Mom might have, we're still a family and we still take care of each other. You tried to teach us that, and now we can prove to you that we got it."

"I see," Elliot said doubtfully, "but don't I get a vote considering it's my health we're talking about?"

"No, Dad, you don't," Maureen told him flatly, "because you're too stubborn to admit when you need help. We've already packed our bags and taken them to the house. You're stuck with us."

"What did I say about talking to me that way?" he asked defiantly, slightly resenting the way his child felt the need to mother him.

Maureen raised an eyebrow and said, "Tell you what, when you start acting your age, I'll stop acting mine, at least when I'm around you, since it bothers you so much. Mom, if you give me some money I'll take the kids, and we'll go get dinner. That way when all the paperwork is finished, we can just take Dad straight home."

Kathy pulled out her wallet and gave Maureen two twenties and a ten.

"I want pizza," Dickie insisted as the four of them headed out of the room.

"You just _had_ pizza last night," Lizzie reminded him.

"I know, and it was good. That's why I want it again."

"Well, I want Chinese," Kathleen told them both.

"Eww!" Lizzie complained, "Chinese food looks and smells like garbage."

"We're going to the food court at the mall," Maureen told them, her voice oozing practicality. "You can each pick out whatever you want and everybody will be happy."

"But I don't like their pizza," Dickie argued.

"Then I guess you'll have to choose something else or go hungry," Maureen said with finality.

They were just about out of the room when Kathy reminded them, "I want my change back!"

"Yes, Mother," Maureen called back over her shoulder.

"And stick together!" Elliot said with more force than was necessary.

At that, Maureen stopped and turned. Staring at him for a moment, as if she could see right through him she quietly assured him, "I'll take care of them, Dad." Then she smiled and blew him a kiss. "Love you," she said and disappeared down the hall.

After a moment of silence, Elliot commented, "She seems to think she's all grown up."

"She is, El," Kathy pointed out. "She's taken on a lot of responsibility in the past year, especially with the twins."

He chewed his lip for a moment and then said sadly, "She shouldn't have had to."

"No, I suppose not, but she did, and she's done a wonderful job of it. You should be proud of her." She patted his shoulder and said, "We were two years married with a mortgage and an infant daughter when we were her age."

He nodded. "Maybe we shouldn't have done that."

Kathy took a deep breath, ready to blast him for suggesting that they should have done anything other than have their baby girl together, but when she saw how miserable he looked, she could only say, "Let's not have this conversation now. We'll have the rest of our lives to talk about how we messed up our kids. At the moment, all I really want to do is get you home where I can take care of you."

She bent over and picked up her shopping bag. "I stopped by the house and got you some things to wear. I know you're probably not comfortable being . . . touched in certain ways yet, but you're gonna have to let me help you put them on, ok?"

He was quiet a moment, then instead of answering her question, he said, "If you move back in, you'll have to file for separation again, and we'll have to live apart for another year before you can file for divorce."

"That's ok," she told him, "I'm not in any hurry to start dating again at my age anyway."

"But, Kath . . . "

"Oh, shut up, Elliot," she said in exasperation. "Your medical benefits cover in-home care. I checked before I ever talked to the kids about going home because I thought it might be better to spare them the upheaval of moving back into the house again. Then I realized that they would want to be near you now just as much as I do. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to be the one helping you when you needed it. You're the father of my children, and even though I couldn't stand living with you, I couldn't stop loving you either. Now, come on," she said, holding his shorts open for him at the edge of the bed, "Get dressed so you can go home."

_Apartment of Sheila & Ralph Gardener  
425 62nd Street, Brooklyn  
7:13 P.M., November 19, 2005_

As he climbed out of the double-parked Crown Victoria near the apartment of Roger DeVane's latest victim, Fin flashed his shield at the young uniformed officer directing traffic, and introduced himself, "Detective Odafin Tutuola, Manhattan SVU. This is my partner, Detective John Munch."

After a quick look at the badges, the uni directed them to a building just a few feet down the block and said, "Second floor. I ain't never seen nothin' like it."

"Give it time," Munch said in his most world-weary tone, and he followed Fin down the sidewalk to the building.

In the hall outside the apartment, Fin and Munch introduced themselves again, this time to a Detective Richard Garrett who was first on the scene after the uniforms who had been sent by Dispatch.

"Female vic is Sheila Gardener, age twenty-four, the male is her husband Ralph, twenty-two," Detective Garrett began reporting his facts. "We got a positive ID from a neighbor, Mrs. Katrina Vetner, who called it in. She and Mrs. Gardener were supposed to have coffee and discuss plans for a charity auction to benefit the local community center. When Mrs. Gardener didn't show up, Mrs. Vetner let herself in with the spare key the Gardener's had given her, and when she saw what you're about to, she called it in."

Munch stood aside, and he let Fin pass into the apartment ahead of him. When he heard his partner's intake of breath, he knew it had to be bad. Bracing himself for the worst, Munch stepped in and moved to stand beside Fin.

"I gotta tell ya, I'm glad to be handin' it off to you guys," the homicide detective muttered as he stepped forward to stand on the other side of Fin. "If I never have to deal with a scene like this again it will be too soon."

The scene was abuzz with CSU people gathering evidence and the ME examining the bodies, but both detectives quickly focused on the victims. The body of Sheila Gardener was bound awkwardly to a chair, her legs splayed wide, her ankles tied to the back legs of the seat. A mesh of fine red welts covered what could be seen of her skin, but much of her was covered in blood that had obviously poured from the gash in her neck and down over her body to pool around her on the floor. Farther into the room, her husband's body lay draped over a kitchen chair like a dirty towel, his hands cuffed to the cross-piece between the front legs and his feet bound to the back. He wasn't as bloody as his wife, but the dent in his skull was most likely the cause of death. Bruises and other injuries indicated that they had both been sexually assaulted.

"Ok, this is clearly a sex crime," Munch conceded, "but why us? Why didn't you call in Brooklyn SVU?"

Detective Garrett jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Gardener's corpse by way of answer. "Because we found this."

He led Munch and Fin into the room and indicated an envelope on the end table beside the body. It was addressed to "Detective Elliot Stabler, Manhattan SVU."

"Soon as I read that, I called you guys," Garrett told them.

Munch nodded. "Where is the neighbor who called it in?"

"She wigged out before I got here," Garrett explained. "First uni on the scene sent her to the hospital in a bus as soon as he determined that the Gardeners didn't need it. I'll find out where they sent her for you and send it on with my notes."

"Thanks," Munch said, "but can you let us know before you leave where she is?"

"Will do," Garrett agreed, and he left the apartment.

"Damn, John, this guy has turned into a completely different kind of animal," Fin breathed, and Munch didn't like the shocked sound of his partner's voice. As Munch and Garrett had been talking, Fin had carefully opened the envelope and read the letter inside.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at this."

Handling the letter by its edges, Munch took it from his partner and, with a growing sickness in the pit of his stomach, he read it.

_Dear Elliot,_

_This is your fault._

_All those poor little girls. I never really harmed them, you know. I just punished them for their carelessness. Can I help it if I enjoyed it a little? Something about those sweet little voices just turned me on like a switch. If you had just left well enough alone, I would have been satisfied with that, but thanks to your meddling, I have found a whole new world of dark needs and desires. _

_You did more damage than I ever did by making those little girls tell you about me over and over and then dragging them into court to face me. You promised them they would be safe once I went to jail, but you lied, didn't you? You knew I would be paroled one day. Why did you lie to them? What are you going to tell them now?_

_Muriel knows you lied to her, and now Sheila knows you can't protect her. I haven't decided yet if the rest will find out. Maybe if you come out and play again, I will leave them alone._

_Well, at least you can truly empathize now; after all, you have felt their pain. Do you have any idea what a rush it was popping your cherry ass? You better not be careless, Detective, I may be back for more._

_Rog_

Munch felt his gorge rising and he had to swallow several times to keep from being sick. He tried hard to maintain his jaded view of the world, but when something like this hit so close to home, it hurt. Finally, with a tremor he couldn't quite keep out of his voice, he said, "I think we need to call George Huang."


	6. Down for the Night

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Six  
Down for the Night**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
8:11 P.M., November 19, 2005_

"Yes, and please, tell him it's urgent!" Munch stressed.

Fin was busy typing his notes on the day's activities, though there wasn't much to report. The stake out at the bank had been a waste of time and the officers Cragen sent to serve the search warrant had found noting in DeVane's safety deposit box. They had also hit a dead end on Annie O'Keefe. Bert Green had given them a lot of information on DeVane's bizarre proclivities, but nothing they could really follow up on, and Lenny Davis, the bartender at Mac's, hadn't called to say DeVane had stopped in, not that anyone really expected him to. Lenny had made it clear that DeVane was unwelcome there, and they figured the little creep knew it, too. Captain Cragen and Olivia, who was officially off the clock but couldn't bring herself to go home while her partner's attacker was still on the loose, were reading Elliot's files on DeVane's original crimes. She didn't say anything, but Olivia took comfort in the fact that, out of respect for her partner, the captain had pulled up a chair beside her desk instead of sitting in Elliot's place across from her.

"That was Huang's office," John said as he dropped the phone in its cradle in frustration. "He's at some training in Quantico. They don't expect him back until late this evening. The woman I spoke to says she will tell him to call as soon as she can get a message through, but apparently, this training ends with an exam, and they won't interrupt it for us."

Don looked his detectives over one by one. This case was taking an immeasurable toll on all of them already. Munch and Fin had been on for more than twenty-four hours straight. After he had taken Elliot's statement in the wee hours of the morning, he had sent Olivia home, but he doubted that she had slept well. Even if she had managed to doze, the strain of walking her partner through a rape exam had to have been at least as taxing as the long hours the other two had worked. He supposed, if he were to look in the mirror, he would find that he didn't look much better than they did, but he was somewhat older than Fin, old enough to be Olivia's father, and had more responsibility on him than Munch. He had a reason to look like hell. Mostly, though, they were all struggling with the knowledge that one of their own had become one of their victims.

He sighed, wishing there was a way all four of them could go home and have a good night's sleep for once. "Ok. Munch, Fin, once you finish your reports, go home. Eat, sleep, and change into some fresh clothes. Someone will call and let you know when Huang will be here. Liv see if you can find a current address for Annie O'Keefe, then you get some rest, too."

Looking to Fin, Olivia asked, "Didn't you say she'd gotten married?"

"Yeah, the bartender said it was to some Wall Street type with money, but he didn't remember the dude's name."

"Then I guess I'll start with a search of marriage licenses and if that doesn't pan out, I'll try the online society pages. How long ago was it?"

"Bartender said about ten years," Fin replied.

"Ok, I'll start then and work my way forward."

Turning to her captain with a look of concern on her face, she asked, "What are you going to do? I think you've been on duty longer than any of us."

Cragen sighed and said, "I have a list of a couple of dozen names of people who volunteered to help when they heard Elliot was attacked. So, I'm going to put together a stakeout detail for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday at the bank."

"Why don't you let me do that?" Liv offered. "Tomorrow's Sunday, and the bank is closed, so it's nothing that can't wait until I finish Googling Annie O'Keefe."

The captain shrugged wearily, and without another word, he turned and headed back into his office. The three detectives watched their captain trudge off, and they all felt for him. He was very much a father figure to each of them, even Munch, who was actually somewhat older than Don, but they knew he had a special connection with Elliot, something they couldn't define and didn't resent because the captain took great pains to treat them equally. He had to be hurting, perhaps more than any of them, to know that such a horrible thing had happened to one of his charges.

Olivia looked back to Munch and Fin, wondering if they should do anything. Both men read her expression clearly, but didn't know how to respond. Fin opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it without a word, shrugged, and went back to typing his reports. Munch sighed and booted up his computer, ready to begin his own. Olivia unwittingly echoed their reactions with a shrug and a sigh of her own, closed the file she had been reading and then went into one of their data bases to search wedding licenses for Annie O'Keefe. After a few minutes of tapping keys, she realized that she should also be searching, Ann, Anne, Anna, Annabel, Annalise, Anneya, and probably a few other permutations of Annie that she would never think of without a book of baby names.

Looking over her shoulder at Munch and Fin, she called, "Hey guys?"

"Yeah?" came the choral response.

"Do you have a phone number for the bar where DeVane hung out?"

"Mac's?" Fin asked, "Yeah, hold on."

He took out his notebook and scratched the number down on a blank page and then passed it across to her by way of Munch. "What do you need that for?" he asked as she accepted the paper.

"I'm trying to narrow my search," she explained, and began to dial.

_"Mac's Tavern. How many in your party?"_

"Actually, I'm not calling for reservations," Olivia said loudly enough for the girl at the other end to hear her over the din of the rowdy patrons she was obviously serving. "My name is Olivia Benson and I'm with the NYPD. I'm calling to speak to the manager, uh . . . " she rolled her eyes to Munch and repeated the name he whispered to her into the phone. "A Mr. Lenny Davis. Tell him I'm calling on behalf of John Munch and Fin Tutuola."

_"Oh, I see. Those guys left him pretty pissed off. I don't know if he'll want to talk to you."_

"Then just imagine how he'll feel if I have to come down there tonight and start asking him questions in front of his patrons," Olivia threatened.

_"Hold, please."_

A few moments later, the phone was picked up again, and this time there was very little background noise.

_"Look, I don't know what you want from me, but I have done everything I can to help you. This mess is bad for my business, and if you don't stop harassing me, I'm going to file a complaint against you."_

"Mr. Davis," Olivia said soothingly, "nobody is trying to give you any trouble here, but we need to get Roger DeVane off the streets before he hurts anyone else. I'm having some trouble locating Annie O'Keefe, and I was hoping you might have some more information to help me."

_"Hey, I told those guys everything I knew about her and that weirdo, which wasn't a hell of a lot, and I will call you if he shows up. So don't you go trying to screw up my life and my livelihood just because you can't find him!"_

"Mr. Davis," Liv continued placatingly, "I know you were cooperative. Detectives Munch and Tutuola told me so." She looked hopefully at John and the nod she got told her it was true. "It's just that, sometimes, after we talk to them, people remember things they had previously forgotten, or they decide to tell us something they didn't think was important before. And sometimes, like now, we have some additional questions that we didn't know we needed to be asking during the first interview. If you can just tell me a couple of things, we shouldn't have to bother you any more unless DeVane shows up at your place."

She heard a resigned sigh. _"What do you want to know?"_

Pleased with herself for getting past the man's defensive attitude without having him hang up on her, Liv bypassed the obvious first question, what was Annie's real first name, and went straight for the less obvious, but more informative ones.

"First of all, is there anyone there right now who might have received and kept a copy of her wedding invitation?"

_"Well, I got one, but I don't hang on to stuff like that, and none of the staff here now were working for me when Annie got married."_

Strike one. "Ok, do you know if her wedding announcement made the wedding pages of the _Times_?" Liv asked, expecting a surprised response to the seemingly off-the-wall question. She heard an amused snort from Munch and turned in her chair to give him a cool look even as Lenny Davis railed in her ear.

_"How the hell would I know? I don't pay attention to crap like that!"_

"I realize that, Mr. Davis," she said, giving Munch a superior look, "but for a bride, making the _Times_ wedding page is like winning a Tony for a Broadway performer. If she made it, chances are she told everyone she knew and bought most of them copies of the paper. She would have made sure you saw it."

There was a silence at the end of the line.

"Mr. Davis?"

_"Hold on a sec, will ya?"_

"Sure."

As she listened to the silence on the phone, Olivia looked to Munch and Fin and said, "He seems to have recalled something."

_"I found it. She had it laminated and posted it on the bulletin board in the break room. Someone drew a mustache on her face. I can't believe it's been there this long. Maybe that's why we never get a perfect score on our health inspection."_

The voice at the other end had gone from excited to thoughtful, and Liv couldn't help but smile. Most people, when they experienced the thrill of actually discovering a useful clue to help the police, couldn't help but feel a little enthusiasm for their civic duty.

_"Hmm, says here she married a guy named Randall Webb Othmer. Wow! His mom's family traces themselves all the way back to one of Teddy Roosevelt's grand kids, and his dad's people have a library named after them in Brooklyn. No wonder she got out of this dump!"_

Liv was itching to read the announcement for herself, so she broke into his musings. "Ok, Mr. Davis, do you have a fax machine?"

_"Huh? Oh, yeah."_

"Good. I need to you fax me a copy of that announcement right away. Is there a date on it?"

_"Yeah. The wedding was August 26, 1995."_

"Great," she said, jotting the date down so she wouldn't forget it in her excitement. "Mr. Davis, if you could just fax it to me, we should be out of your hair from now on."

_"Perfect! What's the number?"_

Liv gave him the fax number for the machine in the squad room and ended the call with an apology. "Mr. Davis, I really am sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused you, but we need to get this guy off the streets as soon as possible. We had to follow up all the information we found on him, and with any luck, what you have given us will lead us to him. We do appreciate your cooperation, Sir."

There was silence at the other end of the line, and then a sigh.

_"Yeah, I know. It's just that last time that guy was mixed up with my place, a lot of my customers freaked out and quit coming in. I was operating in the red for months, and almost lost the business. I had just finished paying off the loan I had to take out to keep afloat last month, and your guys showed up asking questions about him again. Look, tell those other two I'm sorry for being such a jerk. I really do hope you get DeVane soon, but I hope I only hear about it on the news this time."_

Olivia's radar picked up something and she had to ask. "This time? How did you find out about it last time?"

_"Are you kidding? You really don't know? They busted him in the main dining room. He was trying to get Annie to lend him her car."_

Olivia opened Elliot's file and scanned it quickly. She gasped when she realized why she hadn't made the connection. "Your place used to be named Lenny's," she said in surprise. "Why did you change the name?"

_"I hired a consultant to help me save the business. Maybe you don't remember it, but everybody around here was afraid for their kids. Some guy had already kidnapped and molested six little girls, and he was trying to get away with the seventh when the cops grabbed him in my tavern. The consultant told me changing the name would help people stop associating this place with the things DeVane did, so I named it after my dad. I don't know how much good that did, but some of the guy's suggestions must have worked, because we're still here."_

"I see, well, again, I am sorry for the inconvenience, and thanks for your help."

_"Yeah. I'll send that fax out right away. You'll have it in a couple of minutes."_

Liv crossed the room with Elliot's old file in hand. By the time she had finished reading his account of the arrest, the fax machine had spat out a grainy but readable copy of a wedding announcement from the _New York Times_. Right away, she could see why DeVane had been drawn to Annelle Elizabeth O'Keefe. Even past the penciled in moustache, she could see the childlike features of the young woman. Annie didn't look a day over twelve years old.

Back at her computer, she typed in some of the vital statistics she could glean from the announcement, and minutes later, she placed a one-page printout on Fin's desk. At his inquiring look, she said, "Home and work addresses and phone numbers for Annie O'Keefe and Randall Webb Othmer."

Fin shot his partner a glance and handed the printout across their desks. Munch said, "The night is young, and they're not far away. Let's go check it out."

Olivia went back to reading Elliot's old file while the other detectives finished their reports in record time. On his way out, Munch put a hand on Olivia's shoulder, leaned down close to her ear, and said softly, "You did good work. Elliot's going to be ok. Go home and get some rest."

"I'll be home and in bed by ten, I promise," she said, reaching up to squeeze her friend's hand gratefully. "I just feel like I need to be doing something right now. I know Elliot better than anyone in the squad; maybe if I can figure out how he solved the old cases, I can help find DeVane now."

Munch gave her a nod and a smile and left.

_Room 327  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
8:17 P.M., November 19, 2005_

Doctor Peter Dombroski slowly manipulated the fractured ankle, and cringed himself when Elliot went rigid and took in a sharp breath of pain. He didn't usually spend much time with his patients once they were out of the ER and into a room, but it was the weekend and the orthopedic specialist Elliot needed to see was off duty. Mrs. Stabler had tracked him down at the beginning of his four-to-twelve shift and pleaded with him to help her get her husband released. Peter knew the ankle fracture was minor, the mechanical injuries to his patient's hand could wait until his orthopedic consult on Monday, and everything else was superficial. The only reason to hold Elliot longer would be if there were signs of vascular damage preventing proper blood flow to the hand or signs of neurological damage that threatened his use of the appendage. So, Peter had no problem coming by during a slow period in the ER to do a final check before sending the man home.

"Ok, the new x-ray still shows just a hairline fracture," he said as he took the sock that Kathy held out to him and slid it very gently over Elliot's foot, "but there isn't much swelling, and you seem to have good mobility. That's a good sign."

Carefully, he slipped a rigid plastic brace over the foot and ankle and tightly fastened the Velcro straps that held it in place. "That should immobilize it effectively," Peter said, "and you can take it off to shower and change your socks. We just need to wait a few minutes to make sure it isn't too tight."

"How will we know it's too tight?" Elliot asked.

"Your toes will get cold and your foot will fall asleep," the doctor explained. "In the meantime, how are you feeling?"

Elliot wanted to answer, but finding the words wasn't easy. Finally, he decided to stick with his physical condition. The rest could wait until he saw Rebecca again. "Getting some sleep has helped a lot," he admitted, "but the anti-AIDS meds make me nauseous and throwing up is hell on my ribs."

Peter nodded and moved to the bedside table where he looked through the various prescription bottles Kathy had already picked up at the pharmacy. Nodding in satisfaction, he said, "I can write you a scrip for some compazine. That should help. How's the hand?"

"Mostly a dull throb," Elliot admitted. "The painkillers take the edge off."

"Good." Peter waited a moment in case his patient had more to say, then when Elliot didn't speak, he said, "I have to examine the lacerations on your hand to make sure they aren't getting infected. I'll try not to jostle it too much, but it's probably going to hurt anyway."

After a brief pause, Elliot said, "Just do what you gotta do so I can get the hell out of here, ok?"

"All right, then. Do you want to take the splint off yourself, or do you want me to do it?"

Elliot hesitated only a few seconds before he began gingerly to peel apart the closures that held the splint around his hand and wrist. As soon as the device fell open, the support was gone and the pain ratcheted up a few notches. After giving Elliot some time to adjust to the increased discomfort, Peter asked, "Is it all right if I remove the bandages now?"

Elliot nodded, saying, "Yeah, just . . . be careful."

It was all the detective could do to hold still while his doctor peeled off the gauze covering his wounds. Nothing Peter did was painful, yet, but the fear of impending pain was real and Elliot instinctively wanted to pull away. The tension of anticipating what the doctor would do next made his ribs ache miserably, but he could do nothing, think of nothing, to make himself relax, so he just clenched his jaw and endured it.

"Ok, everything on the back of your hand looks like healthy healing," Peter said cheerfully despite the ugly purple, brown, and green mottling. "Now I need to check the underside of your wrist, and that means I have to lift your hand. Brace yourself."

"Wait!" Elliot barked. "Let me." He gritted his teeth and took a couple of slow breaths to prepare himself, and then he raised his forearm to expose the underside of his wrist. It was a simple motion, but it left him gasping in pain and when Kathy took his good hand in hers, he held on tight. He whimpered slightly when the doctor pulled the bandages away and tried to look at anything in the room except his mangled hand and his wife's worried gaze.

"The skin is already healing beautifully," Peter told him, gently laying the bandages over the wounds to keep them covered, "and while I'm no expert, I expect Doctor Wells will be able to fix the internal damage easily enough. Now, I just want you to relax here, until a nurse comes to re-bandage your hand. How is your foot?"

Elliot wiggled his toes. "All right. It doesn't seem to be cold or tingling."

Smiling at Kathy, Peter said, "You can help him get his shoes on now." Then he started scribbling on his prescription pad. Tearing off a sheet, he placed it under one of the several bottles already on the bedside table and said, "That's for the compazine for nausea, and I'm going to write you another one for a crutch. It's ok to walk on your ankle as much as you can tolerate it," he explained, "but I want you to use that crutch for support, and I want you to elevate your foot whenever you sit or lie down, got it?"

"Yeah. So now can I go home?"

"Just as soon as someone re-bandages your wounds you can sign the discharge papers at the nurses' station on this floor and you're a free man, at least until your consult on Monday."

Elliot extended his good hand and found a genuinely grateful smile somewhere. "Thanks, Doc."

Peter shook with him and said, "You're welcome. You just take care of yourself, let your wife help you, and do what your doctor says, and I'm sure you will heal just fine."

Elliot nodded, but said nothing more. Both men knew he had wounds that went deeper than his physical injuries.

_Residence of Annelle & Randall Othmer  
W. 93rd Street & Central Park West  
8:31 P.M., November 19, 2005_

"I think you ought to take the lead this time," Munch said as he and Fin approached the Othmer residence, a big brownstone house in a neighborhood so wealthy even the snow in the gutters along the street seemed whiter than it did in the rest of the city.

"Ok, but why?"

With a mischievous grin the Jewish Detective looked at his African-American partner and said, "Because your people have more experience bowing and scraping to people like these to keep them happy. My people, on the other hand, generally try to cheat them out of their money in the Diamond District."

Fin shot Munch a sour look that couldn't quite contain his amusement at the insightful wisecrack. Sadly, Munch's reasoning made sense. Still, Fin couldn't let it slide without comment. "If anyone else in the department had said that, I'd be filing a complaint, you know."

Not missing a beat, Munch shot back, "I love you, too."

"Shut up." Fin rang the bell.

"This from the man who once introduced me as his Jew."

The door opened just then, preventing another less than eloquent comeback, and flashing his badge at a man who was obviously a servant, he said, "Detectives Odafin Tutuola and John Munch, NYPD. We need to speak to Mrs. Othmer regarding a police matter."

The butler or doorman or manservant or whatever he was called glared at the two cops as if they were cockroaches crawling in his pantry, but all he said in his cool, cultured voice was, "Certainly, gentlemen, won't you come in?"

As they stepped into the brownstone, the soft sounds of a string quartet and quiet conversation filtered down the hall. The butler ushered them into a small parlor just off the main entrance and said, "Wait here, please. Madam will be with you presently."

As he left, the servant firmly shut the door behind him. A moment later, Munch crossed the room and tried the knob. It turned easily and he said, "At least he didn't lock us in."

Fin grinned at him. "I was expecting to wait outside."

"Oh, no," Munch said. "The neighbors would talk."

Fin merely grunted in reply.

The detectives inspected the furnishings and artwork in their luxurious cell for a few minutes, and then the door swung open on silent hinges, and Mrs. Annelle O'Keefe Othmer smiled and asked, "Gentlemen, how can I help you?"

"We need to ask you some questions about a man named Roger DeVane," Fin said bluntly.

Annie's eyes grew wide and her face flushed red. Slamming the door shut behind her, she stepped closer to the detectives and said in a harsh whisper, "I don't know who the hell sent you, but I haven't seen him in over twelve years. That part of my past is dead and buried."

"Yeah, well, he's out on parole, lady, and he's wanted on four counts of rape and three counts of murder," Fin told her. "We need any background you can give us on him, and we can ask our questions here and now, or we can find you at your job or at one of your high-toned charity events and ask them there, in front of all your society friends and co-workers. Your choice."

For a moment, Mrs. Othmer was furiously angry, and then suddenly, Annie, the tavern waitress showed up. "Look, guys, somehow, against all odds, I have gotten really lucky. I have a wonderful husband from a great family who really loves me. He doesn't know about DeVane, and if I have anything to say about it, he never will. I can't screw this up.

"My husband plays squash at the club every Sunday, leaves here about seven and returns around lunchtime. Give me your card, and I will be at your station by eight tomorrow, with bells on, to tell you anything you want to know, just please, don't let my misbegotten relationship with Roger DeVane get back to my husband."

The woman seemed sincere, and sincerely desperate. Fin looked to his partner and Munch gave him what anyone else would view as an apathetic shrug. Fin, having worked with the man for years now knew it was really carte blanche to do whatever he saw fit.

Opening his wallet, he flicked out a business card and handed it over to Mrs. Othmer. "If you're even one minute late," he said allowing himself to slip slightly into the thug tone he used when he was under cover or trying to shake a tough suspect, "I'll have a patrol car an' two uniformed officers out here canvassin' the neighborhood. I can guarantee they'll be knockin' on lots of door an' askin' all the neighbors embarrassin' questions about you."

She bristled at that. "There's no need to threaten me, Detective. I'll be there. Now, if you'd excuse me, my husband and I are entertaining some guests. Perhaps you know them. There's the deputy mayor and his wife, and the state attorney general and his wife with their daughter and her husband. Such a lovely young man, he's on the short list for democratic candidate for lieutenant governor in the next election."

"Lady, I don't impress that easy, so you don't need to tell me who your friends are. Now, if you had Spike Lee in there, I'd ask for an introduction . . . maybe. But I know he has too much class to be seen in a joint like this."

"Darling, is everything all right?"

The voice was definitely Ivy League, and the face, when Randall Webb Othmer came into the room, was obviously all-American. "Gentlemen, can I help you?" He asked the question cordially enough, but his expression showed that, like the butler, he regarded them as little more than vermin.

"No, Love, it's all right," Mrs. Othmer covered smoothly. "Didn't I tell you? I saw a fender-bender the other day on the way to the salon. It was a hit and run, and these gentlemen are investigating."

"No, Dearest, you didn't mention it. Was anyone hurt?" The butler appeared at the door, unobtrusively waiting to be asked to show the police out.

"Why, I don't know," looking to Munch and Fin she inquired, "Detectives?"

Fin nodded. "Yes, sir, a father of four suffered a broken ankle, broken bones and torn tendons in his wrist, and several more serious injuries," he stated. "There's no telling how long it will be before he can go back to work. That's why we're working late on this one. We just need your wife's statement to confirm the police report for the insurance adjustor."

"Well, surely, it can wait for business hours on Monday," Othmer said. "My wife and I have some very important guests right now."

"Actually, Darling, I was thinking of taking care of it tomorrow while you're playing squash," she informed him. "The poor man will probably need his insurance payout sooner rather than later."

"Yes, I suppose so," Randall agreed. "You can go take care of that tomorrow, but right now, let's get back to the party before Andrew decides everyone needs another cocktail and Heather gets totally sloshed. Gentlemen," he said, extending his hand for both Munch and Fin to shake, "have a good evening."

"This way, Detectives," the Othmer's servant said, and Munch and Fin had little choice but to follow.

Out in the car, Munch said, "Did you really have to threaten her like that and then insult her friends?"

"What can I say?" Fin shrugged as he started the engine and turned on the heater. "I'm not as good at being nice as you are."

"That doesn't mean you have to go out of your way to be a complete ass," Munch grumbled.

Fin gave him a sly grin and said, "No, it doesn't, but tomorrow morning, while I'm sleeping in, you can drag your skinny butt into the squad at eight, be all apologetic and sympathetic, and she'll think you're just her kind of Jew. She'll answer any question you ask if you apologize enough for my behavior."

"I could almost admire that except for one thing," Munch said.

"What's that?"

"I'm the one who has to report at eight tomorrow."

"Call the office and tell Liv what's up," Fin suggested. "I'll drop you at your place and then take the car back to the station."

Munch opened his phone and dialed.

_The Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
9:12 P.M., November 19, 2005_

"All right, you three, time for baths and bed," Maureen Stabler told her younger siblings as she turned off the TV shortly after nine in the evening.

"Hey!"

"I was watching that!"

"Mom!"

"She's right!" Kathy called from the kitchen, "Now go!"

Three children turned their disgruntled faces to their bleary-eyed dad who had been dozing in the recliner with his feet up until the commotion, and he just held up his hands defensively and told them. "Don't look at me that way! You know I'm not going to contradict your mother. If it were up to me you'd all still be going to bed at eight."

As she watched her younger siblings going up the stairs, Maureen moved over to her father and placed a hand on his shoulder saying, "You know, you'd probably sleep better if you went to bed, too."

He reached up and patted her small, soft hand with his larger one and said, "I know, and I will, soon."

Smiling, Maureen nodded and leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek. Then she called up the stairs, "If you three are watching TV in Kathleen's room, you'd better turn it off now. You need to get out your clothes for mass so Mom can iron them and Elizabeth, you have to do a reading journal for school on Monday. Mom said your teacher called and told her you were falling behind."

As she climbed the stairs, Elliot had to shake his head and laugh, amazed at how his oldest child had matured.

"She's something else, isn't she?" Kathy asked as she came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

"When did she become that . . . adult?" Elliot asked gesturing up the stairs with his good hand.

Kathy was quiet a moment, then replied, "When I needed her to grow up and help me with the others."

Elliot wasn't sure if he should apologize or tell her it was her own fault for abandoning him, and before he could answer, Kathy spoke again.

"She's right, you know. It's time for you to get to bed, too."

"Yeah, Kath, about that . . ." he began.

"I can sleep in the guest room," Kathy interrupted.

"Actually, that's where I've been sleeping," he told her. "Most of my stuff is in there now. Our bed . . . it was just so big and . . . empty without you. I felt lost in it, and I couldn't sleep. I sleep much better in the other room."

Kathy nodded, not sure how to reply. Finally, she just said, "Ok, that's good, I guess. Fewer stairs for you to climb anyway."

Moving over to his chair, she offered her hand to help him up.

_An Ill Wind_

Liv closed the last file on DeVane's old assaults and glanced at her own notes. She frowned and started circling things. After a few minutes, she turned to a blank page and started copying what she had circled. Excited, she looked around for someone to share her news with and saw that her captain was awake. Hours ago, he had fallen asleep over the rosters he was making for the stakeout at DeVane's bank, and she had closed his office door so the noise of the main room wouldn't disturb him. She had wanted to pull the shades so all of his detectives wouldn't have the chance to watch him in the glass enclosed office like some kind of sleeping animal at the zoo, but she knew invading his space that way was sure to wake him. Now, though, she felt she had really made an important discovery and she was pleased that he was available to share it with her.

She crossed the squad room and rapped on his door. When he waved her in, she entered and said without preamble, "I found something."

Cragen looked at her with interest and gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Ok, first of all, every one of the original victims said DeVane tied them up, whipped them before he raped them, and told them, 'Careless little girls must be punished,' which explains the beatings, but that's not the important part," Olivia said as she crossed the room.

"Then what is?" the captain asked, deciding not to mention the similar information in Elliot's statement.

Sitting she told him, "There's sort of a chain connecting the victims. He didn't attack them in the order he found them, but each of them led him to another. I'm sure of it."

Cragen motioned her to continue talking and said, "Explain."

Olivia came around the desk to stand beside his chair and showed him her notes.

"I figured there had to be a connection between the vic's, so I started by listing all activities they went to."

The first page she showed him was a mess of names and clubs, lessons, and after school programs covered in circles and arrows. He knew he was tired, despite the two-hour nap he had taken at his desk, and he figured that was why nothing was jumping out at him.

"I figured there had to be something they all had in common, but there wasn't, not exactly. I put the names in a different order, and look."

Olivia flipped the page and the pattern was revealed.

_Samantha Henne  
Girl Scout Cadet Troupe 716, Story Ave. Community Center, Bronx  
Ballet class, Tip Toe Dance Studio, Bronx_

_Elise Neubauer  
Ballet class, Tip Toe Dance Studio, Bronx  
Riding lessons, Picard Hill Stables, Long Island_

_Karen Carmichael  
Riding lessons, Picard Hill Stables, Long Island  
Soccer Practice, Kantor Fields_

_Cecilia Rojas  
Soccer Practice, Kantor Fields  
Family Food Pantry Volunteer, St. Gregory's Church, Manhattan_

_Kelly Washington  
Family Food Pantry Volunteer, St. Gregory's Church, Manhattan  
Latchkey Kids, Long Island City Public Library_

_Muriel Faringo  
Latchkey Kids, Long Island City Public Library  
Piano lessons, Luther Hill Piano Studio, Woodside, Queens  
Children's Choir, St. Constantine and St. Helen's Church, Woodside, Queens_

_Suzanne Liu  
Piano lessons, Luther Hill Piano Studio, Woodside, Queens  
Gymnastics, Petrov Gymnastics Club, Rego Park, Queens  
Swimming lessons, Long Island City YMCA_

Cragen gave Liv a half-smile and said, "That's good policework."

"Thanks. I'm surprised Elliot didn't see it. I figure I can track down Shelia Gardener's parents in the morning, see if she was involved in any of the same activities as Muriel Faringo or Suzanne Liu." Olivia moved back to the seat in front of the desk.

Cragen shook his head and Liv frowned. "Why not?"

"We both told Elliot you wouldn't be working his case," Don explained.

"I'm not," Olivia said. "I'm working the Faringo and Gardener murders."

"Don't you think that's cutting it a little fine?" the captain asked. "Look, Elliot needs to trust us, you especially, and if you start playing him like that, his trust in you is gone. You two work together too well, and I know you're close friends. You don't want to jeopardize that, do you?"

Liv sighed deeply, and her expression grew profoundly sad. "I just want to help," she said in a small, childlike voice, "Maybe I can talk to Elliot about the old cases in a few days, when he's feeling a little better. There's no indication in the file of how he discovered that DeVane was the perp."

"I think we need to hold off on troubling him with this until we have exhausted all our other options," Cragen said, "What do you have planned for tomorrow?"

"I'm starting out at the ME's office. I'm gonna pick up Warner's reports on the four attacks on the way in. Then I have some errands to run on a couple of cases I took over from Munch and Fin," Liv told him. "Munch is coming in to interview Annie O'Keefe at eight. Fin's going back to Muriel Faringo's place to have a look around since he hasn't seen the crime scene yet, but Munch thinks he's sleeping in. Huang has an early meeting in Quantico that his office didn't know about, but he plans to be back around noon. He said he'd call us for lunch orders on his way in if we didn't mind Chinese."

Nodding, the captain said, "Ok. When you get back from your errands, come see me. I think I know who you can talk to about DeVane's original crimes." He took out a sheet of paper and scribbled a short list on it. "What do you want Huang to pick up for you?"

"Mmmm. Beef and broccoli, egg roll, pork fried rice, hot and sour soup."

When Cragen raised his eyebrows at the quantity of food, she shrugged and said, "I'll take the soup and half the beef and broccoli home for dinner. Did you get the stakeout roster done?"

"Yeah, but would you look it over for me? I was half asleep when I made it, and I'm not sure it's right."

Liv took the roster and the list of shifts the other cops were supposed to be working and spent a few minutes checking one against the other. "Oops. You have Woodley scheduled when he's supposed to be in court, but . . . yep you confused him and Wooster. Just switch their names and it will work out all right."

She erased the two names and penciled them back in the proper slots. "Good to go."

"Thanks." The captain grabbed his coat stood to leave. "Did you eat yet?"

"No."

"Then let me buy you dinner."

"Well . . . " Liv looked at her watch and said, "As long as you don't tell Munch."

"What?" Cragen asked sarcastically. "You two are dating and he's jealous?"

"No, I promised him I would be in bed by ten, and at this rate I'll never make it."

The captain offered her a lopsided grin. "Don't tell me this is the first time you ever broke curfew!" he gasped in mock dismay.

"No," Liv laughed back at him, "and it won't be the last."

"Then what are you waiting for. Let's get out of here." He picked up their lunch orders and the stakeout roster, and on his way out he put one on Munch's desk and the other on Fin's with instructions to have the roster typed and distributed.

_An __Ill Wind_

"He's down for the night," Kathy Stabler said as she plopped onto the sofa next to her eldest child, who was watching a movie on the Disney Channel.

"Good," Maureen said. "He needs his rest. Kathleen and the twins are in bed. Lizzie finished her reading journal, and I loaded the dishwasher."

"I guess that means I get to do the ironing," Kathy groused. Both of them hated ironing and they would each do every other chore they could think of just to leave that one to the other. Still, Kathy was grateful for her daughter's help. Leaning over to give Maureen a kiss on the side of her head, she said, "Thank you, Sweetie."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"What really happened to Daddy?"

"He was just beat up really bad, Sweetie," Kathy told her, not missing a beat. She was expecting at least one of her children to ask for more details about their father's attack, and she had been thinking about her story since Liv had called to tell her what had happened.

"He's been beat up before. It never made him this scared or this sad," Maureen observed.

"Sweetheart, this time, it was different. The man who hurt him handcuffed him to the stairs so he couldn't defend himself, and a woman was killed right in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it." She had gathered that much from Olivia and from Elliot himself and figured the lie would be easier to believe, not to mention remember, if it was as close to the truth as she could make it.

"All right, Mom," Maureen said in a tone of mild frustration. "I'll drop it."

Kathy sat watching the movie and didn't know what to do. Maureen obviously didn't believe her, but if she tried too hard to convince the young woman, there would only be more questions to answer and more lies to tell. Deciding it was best to let things be as they were, she kissed her daughter's hair once more and said, "I'm going to bed. You should get some sleep, too."

"I'll be up when the movie's over."

Maureen watched as her mother padded up the stairs. Then she began flipping channels on the TV. She was almost twenty-one, and she wished her parents would start treating her as an adult. Oh, they both trusted her now, to look after herself and her sisters and brother, but they still thought she didn't know anything about anything and told her white lies all the time to save her from 'grown-up' problems. She couldn't ask her dad about what had happened. He'd die before he shared his troubles with her. Maybe she'd work on her mom more in the morning. It just depended on how things went when they got up for mass.

* * *

**Author's note: **Hi guys. I hate doing this, but I have to ask. I see a lot of hits but few reviews. When over 100 people read a chapter and only two have anything to say about it, I have to wonder if it is worth continuing. I love writing, but I love even more seeing what people have to say about it. I'm not looking for fawning praise. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and I enjoy reading people's predictions about what might be coming next. Thanks to those of you who have reviewed, and the rest of you, please do! Even if there is something you don't like, I can always take that into consideration in another story. I also accept anonymous reviews, so you don't even have to log in.

Ok, enough said. Thanks for reading.


	7. Insight

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Seven**_

_**Insight**_

OOO

_The Stabler Residence_

_72-12 Castleside Street_

_Glen Oaks, Queens_

_3:02 A.M., November 20, 2005_

Maureen opened her eyes and blinked into the glare of the television set. She had muted it when she was channel surfing so the changing volume as she flipped from channel to channel wouldn't disturb her family. On the one hand, she couldn't believe that they didn't have a TV with 'smart sound' yet, but on the other hand, she knew her parents' paychecks didn't go far when there were four kids to feed and four college funds to save for. In a few years, when all television went digital, maybe she would be making enough money to buy them a new TV for Christmas. Of course, by then, Kathleen and the twins would all be working, so maybe the four of them could go together and get a whole digital entertainment system. Then she frowned. _Them. Will they be back together in a few years, or will Mom wait until Dad recovers from his injuries and then serve him with divorce papers?_ Hitting the display button on the remote, she saw by the blue numbers on the screen that it was just after three in the morning.

She hit the power button, and in the sudden darkness, her ears became instantly more attuned to the sounds of the night. The furnace was running, so was the fridge. A dog was barking somewhere in the neighborhood.

"Please, no."

The words from the guest room caught her attention as she crossed the living room to the stairs. She'd never known her father to talk in his sleep, but then when her parents were still together, her bedroom and theirs had always been at opposite ends of the hall.

"No, please don't."

She'd never known her dad to whine like that either. She wandered down the hall and stood by his door, chewing her bottom lip and wondering what she should do.

"Please don't hurt me."

He was having a nightmare. She knew he would be embarrassed to have her wake him, but it made her chest hurt to hear him suffering like that. Maybe she should get her mom.

"Noooooo."

The long, low sob made the decision for her. Opening the door as quietly as she could because she didn't want to startle him awake, she crossed the room to his bed. The digital clock and the stripes of light coming in through the blinds were enough for her to see by. Her dad's good hand was clinging to the ironwork of the headboard, and his injured hand was strapped close to his chest in the sling the doctor had fitted to keep the injury elevated above his heart. Both of his legs were twisted up tightly in the sheets, and his t-shirt was stained dark with sweat on his chest and under his arms.

"Ohhh, nooooo."

Putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, she shook him. "Daddy?"

He made a soft whimpering sound, even more pitiful than the frightened sobbing.

She shook him harder. "Dad, wake up. It's just a bad dream. Daddy?"

He opened his eyes wide and sat bolt upright in bed, startling her, but she managed for his sake not to scream. Scooting up the mattress to have his back to the headboard, he drew up his knees and wrapped his good arm around them. Looking around in confusion, he seemed not to recognize her or even know she was there.

"Daddy, it's me," she said, her voice pleading with him to know her. She reached out to him and he ducked away. "It's all right, Daddy, it was just a bad dream."

Finally, his eyes seemed to focus. "Maureen, Baby, what are you doing here?"

He was shivering, breathing heavily, and clearly in agony from his injured ribs, but he seemed to be unaware of them as the cause of his suffering.

"I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up and headed to bed, I heard you talking in your sleep. It was just a bad dream. You're ok." She couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice. Seeing him so disoriented and obviously frightened scared her, too. She reached out to touch him again, and this time, instead of ducking away, he jumped when her hand made contact with his shoulder.

With a sudden flash of insight, she read his body language. Like a wave, understanding washed over her, and she knew what her mother would not tell her. Instinctively, she moved closer and put her arm around his shoulders.

"It's ok, Daddy, you're safe now."

It was clear that he had heard those words enough in the past twenty-four hours to know what they meant. Peering at her with a look that she could imagine he used to intimidate the most hardened of criminals into talking, he asked, "What did I say in my sleep?"

She didn't know what to tell him. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. There were tears on his cheeks. She wanted to wipe them away, but he seemed not to know they were there. She had never seen him cry in her life. Not even when he came to Grandma's and begged her mom to move back home.

"Maureen, what did I say?" His tone was partly desperate, partly threatening.

Not wanting to embarrass him and knowing she couldn't lie, she swallowed hard and whispered, "Enough for me to know what he did to you."

His eyes were desolate. "Oh, Baby Girl, I'm so sorry. I didn't . . . want you to know. I wanted to protect you from this."

"You don't need to," she said firmly and sat on the edge of the mattress beside him. Now, she did wipe away his tears, and then she pulled him into a gentle hug. She'd never known him to seem so lost, to be so needy, or to be so willing to accept comfort. He'd always had to be so tough before, but this horrible thing had shattered his defenses.

"It's ok, Daddy, you're safe now," she repeated.

They sat there like that for a while, her holding him, and him letting her, each of them somehow finding comfort in the moment. For the first time in her life, she actually felt like an adult around him, instead of a little girl acting like a grownup. Little by little, the tension seeped out of his body. Finally, she cleared her throat and spoke again.

"I've been volunteering at the Campus Rape Crisis Center since I was a sophomore," she blurted out. "I'm a certified counselor."

He stared at her for a moment in surprise, and then wondered what reaction she wanted from him. "Look, Maureen . . ."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to try to counsel you," she cut him off. "That would be, well, weird, and probably unethical, too. Besides, Mom told me about Doctor Hendrix, and I think it's great that she's helping you. But I do have some things I want to tell you."

"Maureen . . ."

"Shh. That means I talk, you listen for once." Her tone was firm, and gentle, not at all disrespectful, more authoritative than it had ever been. She had never spoken to him quite that way before. How could he not obey?

"First of all, I know you've heard it before, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded. You're safe now. Liv had the locks changed, and she gave Mom the new keys. It's standard procedure, and they do it for every victim. You know that. All the doors and windows are locked. The alarm is set. _No one_ can hurt you in this house."

He knew he was supposed to respond when she paused, so he nodded, despite his knowledge to the contrary, and let her continue. A small part of him was humoring her, letting his little girl act all grown up; but most of him was responding to the competent, compassionate, professional young woman who was trying to help him cope with the jumble of emotions that had been battering him since the attack.

"Also, I want you to know you are not alone. This happens to a lot of guys. Nobody knows how many male victims there are, but it is probably the most underreported crime there is. We have a couple of counseling groups we refer men to."

When he started to interrupt, she anticipated his words and overrode him. "I know it's not in your character to join a therapy group, but for some people, just knowing it's there, that there are enough others to form one, helps. That said, if you ever decide you want to try it, I can help you find one."

He nodded somberly when she paused for breath, and was surprised when she suddenly looked disappointed.

"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," Maureen apologized. "I'm starting to sound like one of those tri-fold informational pamphlets we hand out to the freshmen, aren't I?"

He shook his head. "You're doing fine." He looked down and picked at a thread unraveling from the edge of his blanket, embarrassed by what he was about to admit. "This probably sounds stupid, but I didn't know that. I mean I did, because of my job, you know, and I've told other guys that, not a lot of them, but enough to know the statistics. Still, in the middle of it . . ."

He looked up at her, needing her to see in his eyes how much he loved her and appreciated what she was doing for him, "I guess . . . now that it's happened to me . . . I need to hear it from someone else."

She put a hand over his and he stopped playing with the blanket. "We've had five guys come into the center this semester alone," she said. "They weren't all students, they weren't weak, they weren't gay, and they weren't asking for it. They were victims, they were hurting, and they needed help."

He looked down where her small, white hand was covering his larger, lightly tanned one and he interlaced their fingers. She gave his hand a little squeeze communicating support, and he squeezed back to show his gratitude.

"There's one more thing I want you to know, Dad." Maureen waited a moment, but when he didn't look up, she said it anyway. "You don't have to pretend you're ok around me. I'm a big girl now. I know I'm grown up, you see, because I have finally figured out that I _don't_ know everything."

He gave a lopsided grin as he studied her hand, wondering when she had started getting her nails manicured. That had been one of his favorite jibes whenever she complained that he was babying her or being too strict. "Just wait 'til you _don't_ know everything," he'd say and suggest that maybe _then_ he would give her a later curfew or let her go clubbing in the city with her friends.

"I know people are a lot more complicated than happy, sad, and angry. You don't have to tell me anything, but you don't have to act like it was nothing either, ok?"

He nodded and they sat there again in silence until Maureen said, "Mom told me he killed a woman right in front of you."

He shook his head, knowing he could be, he had to be, honest with her. "That's not entirely true. I was unconscious at the time. She probably called to me to help her, and I couldn't even answer."

Maureen squeezed his hand and put her other arm around him, pulling him into another comforting embrace. "It's not your fault, Dad. You're human. You did the best you could, and no one can expect more than that."

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at her words, or to be proud that he had raised such a compassionate and understanding child. It was exactly what he would have said to anyone else, but somehow, he still couldn't believe it for himself.

_Medical Examiner's Offices_

_520 1st Ave._

_6:02 A.M., November 20, 2005_

Liv strolled into the medical examiner's lab at six in the morning, knowing Melinda Warner was finishing up a night shift because she had called the previous day to get her colleague's schedule. Ordinarily, Warner handled autopsies, but given the nature of the crime and the fact that Elliot was the vic, they wanted to keep the circle of those in the know as small as possible.

As the weary ME sat at her desk, Liv handed her a cup of cappuccino. "French Vanilla, decaf, with a sprinkle of cinnamon."

Warner smiled her thanks, and slid the file over to Olivia. "How's he doing?"

"I haven't seen him since before lunch yesterday," Liv said and she took a hit of her Swiss Mocha Almond and immediately felt the caffeine kicking in, energizing her limbs and jumpstarting her brain. She was a coffee addict, and figured if that was her worst vice, she could live with it. "His wife and kids are looking after him. I thought I ought to keep my distance for a little while."

"I understand you were with him for the exam," Melinda said gently. As far as she was concerned, she didn't get to work with Stabler and Benson often enough. They were smart, curious, and good investigators who could easily grasp most of the complicated forensic evidence she presented them. They worked well together and with her, and, as much as she was disturbed by what had happened, she knew Olivia had to be suffering a thousand times more.

Olivia nodded, her face betraying her emotions.

"How are you doing?" Melinda asked knowingly.

As she opened her mouth to answer, Olivia yawned. Realizing that the initial hit of caffeine was already wearing off, she took another swallow of coffee, and then, wiping her watery eyes with the paper napkin the coffee shop had provided with her drink, she laughed at herself and said, "I'll sleep better when this bastard's in jail, that's for sure. I wish I could do more to help with the investigation, but I'm his partner, and he has asked me to stay off this case. I'm reviewing the old cases to see if I can find new leads on what DeVane is doing or where he might be now. This is just an errand for Munch and Fin."

"I see, so you're not going to read the file before you hand it over to them?"

"You know I'm torn," Olivia admitted. "I want to know what's in there, because I can't help but think if I just had a little more information I could help find DeVane, but then I made a promise to my partner. Now, I don't think I'd have a problem breaking that promise if I knew it would pay off. I just wouldn't tell Elliot. But if I read it and it doesn't help, then I have betrayed his trust for nothing."

"Then let me put you out of your misery," Melinda offered. "We've got the pictures of Elliot's injuries from the exam, some fibers on his clothes that we matched to the furniture in the apartment, and some DNA to prove it was DeVane. On Muriel Faringo, there were dozens of welts, probably cause by a whip of some sort, evidence of rape, fibers from the house, and more of DeVane's DNA. Cause of death was exsanguination from a severed carotid artery. She also had very dry, chapped skin, especially on her hands. That's all."

Liv nodded. "Thanks. That solves a real dilemma for me." She saw a troubled look cross the ME's face and asked, "What's on your mind?"

"I could go through proper channels, but it would be easier if you would just tell me your partner's phone number. I have some information for him, too."

"You ran an HIV test on DeVane's fluids, didn't you?" Olivia asked. "Is it good news?"

Melinda didn't have a very good poker face. "I'm not supposed to answer that."

"And that in itself is an answer," Liv pointed out, knowing the woman would have had no qualms telling her DeVane was HIV-negative and her partner was in the clear. "Damn."

"The chances of contracting it . . ."

"Yeah, I know, the odds of getting it through a sexual assault are low, practically microscopic, and he's taking the anti-AIDS medication, but it's one more thing he doesn't need hanging over him right now," Liv took out her notebook and tore a sheet loose to write down Elliot's home number. "Make sure his wife is with him when you tell him, ok?"

Warner nodded. "I will."

_An Ill Wind_

Elliot opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost seven in the morning. He yawned, and would have stretched, but his ribs had already given him hell when he took that deep breath for the yawn, so he knew better. When he turned his head to look out the window and see what the weather might be, he was momentarily startled by the sleeping form in the corner armchair. Then he remembered Maureen coming to him in the night, waking him from his nightmare, and sitting with him until he was calm again. Surprisingly, he felt gratitude for her compassion, and pride in what an extraordinary young woman his little girl had become, but he wasn't embarrassed in the least by his behavior in front of her. He supposed that it must have had something to do with the fact that the two of them were so much alike that he instinctively knew she understood how he felt and wouldn't judge him.

She had propped her feet up on the footrest in front of the chair, and though he felt some complaints from sore muscles, he couldn't resist reaching out and tickling the sole of her foot. She flicked the appendage as if chasing off a fly, and after a moment, he started teasing her again. When she was little, he would tickle her feet every once in a while just to hear her giggle. Then he would swoop her up and she would put out her arms, straight to her sides like she was flying and squeal in delight.

It had all been fun and games for him until she was about four years old and discovered he had a ticklish spot, too.

As he ran his fingers lightly up and down the sole of her foot, she kicked out sharply this time. He jumped in surprise, and the sudden motion caused his ribs to hurt. He gasped in pain, and the sudden intake of air hurt so bad he saw spots.

"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," Maureen apologized, awakened by the sounds of his discomfort.

"'Salright," he grunted, and after catching his wind, he assured her, "I was asking for it. I know how ticklish you are."

"That _was_ a kind of a dumb thing to do," Maureen agreed a little too readily for his liking.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he responded.

Maureen blew him a kiss, and then fell serious. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

Elliot stopped himself in mid-sigh when he felt another twinge from his ribs. After a moment's thought, he said, "Sore, but not too bad."

Maureen seemed to think a moment about probing further, but she must have sensed that he wasn't willing to talk about his emotional state with her, so she just nodded instead and asked, "It's about time for your pain medication, isn't it?"

"Yeah, and the Combivir," Elliot told her.

"I hate that it makes you so sick," she said.

"Me, too, Baby Girl," he told her. "There's something else over there," he gestured toward the chest of drawers where his various pill bottles sat, "The doctor prescribed it for nausea. Some little yellow pills."

"Ok, just let me go get you some water, first."

While she was gone, Elliot worked his way to a sitting position in the bed. It was a strenuous process, and by the time she got back from the kitchen, he was sweating and grimacing in pain. She gave him a curious, concerned look, but said nothing.

She scooped up the various pill bottles from the chest of drawers and brought them over to him. Letting them drop to the blanket that covered his lap, she set the water on the nightstand and then, realizing he couldn't possibly open the child-safe containers with his left hand in a splint, she picked up a bottle.

"Ok, here we go," she began reading, "Combivir, one tablet twice daily." She opened it and shook one fat white tablet out into her palm. "At least it isn't quite big enough to choke a horse." She put the bottle on the nightstand and picked up the next one.

"Yeah, and it's a less complicated schedule," he said. "Years ago, there were two different pills to take, one every eight hours and one every twelve hours. I was always worried I'd forget one or the other, or take the wrong pill at the wrong time."

Maureen frowned. "You mean you've been exposed to HIV before?" she asked in surprise. "Daddy, when?"

Elliot grimaced at her sharp tone and said, "When you were too young to worry about it."

From her annoyed look, he knew he needed to explain more. "A few years ago Liv and I had a victim who had slit her wrists while soaking in a warm bath. I had a cut on my hand and I lifted her out of the water."

"You shouldn't have kept that from us," Maureen said sullenly.

"You were just a kid then, and that was a grown up problem," he explained. "If I had tested positive, then your mother and I would have told you."

"You don't need to protect us," she told him.

"I'm your dad, Maureen, it's my job."

She met his gaze, saw how earnest he was, and nodded, knowing better than to say anything more about the subject. Reading the next bottle, she said, "Percodan, one tablet every six hours as needed for pain. Do not exceed four per day.' Do you want one?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I'm sore, but I have learned in the past that I have a high tolerance for pain. I probably won't need another one until bedtime."

Looking at him dubiously, Maureen said, "You don't have to prove to us how strong you are, you know?"

"I know," he told her, "and I don't plan to suffer just to look tough. I have never needed as much pain reliever as the doctor has prescribed. Ask your mother."

Nodding, Maureen dumped one of the little pink footballs out in her hand and then moved on to the next drug. "'Compazine. One tablet every six hours as needed for nausea.'"

"I'll need one because of the Combivir."

She took out one of the small yellowish-green pills for him and set the container beside its fellows. Looking at the last bottle she read, "Valium, one tablet, as needed, for acute anxiety."

"Give me that!" he snapped, and taking the bottle from her, he hurled it across the room in the direction of the trashcan.

She looked at him for a moment, knowing what he was thinking, that a grown man shouldn't need the little white pills to deal with a beating, and knowing how wrong he was. Hoping she was doing the right thing, she decided not to ignore his actions.

"Feel better?" she asked, arching one eyebrow.

"Maureen, don't go there," he warned.

She ignored him. "There are only four or five in the bottle," she said. "Obviously your doctor thought you might need them." She crossed the room and retrieved the medication.

"Well, I don't," he said firmly.

"You didn't bat an eye about taking the Percodan or the Compazine, and you don't deny that the Combivir is a good idea. Why are you so reluctant to admit that you might need a Valium?"

"They're for real problems, the Valium is different."

"Why?" she demanded. "Because it's for emotional pain instead of physical suffering? Your feelings are real, too, Dad, every bit as real as the bruises on your face. You can't ignore them just because you don't see them."

"I know that," he insisted angrily, "but that doesn't mean I need tranquilizers to cope with them."

"Not now, because you're pissed off . . . I mean mad, ok, you're angry." He had opened his mouth to correct her for her coarse language but she had beaten him to it. For a moment, her eyes said, _Did I really say that in front of my father?_ but then she remembered the matter at hand and got back to it.

"I'm hoping it doesn't happen, but how are you going to feel laying here in the dark after three nights of not sleeping because you're afraid of the nightmares?" she asked. "What about when someone from the squad needs to talk to you about your statement or you have to go in and pick this guy out of a lineup? Isn't it better to have it in case you need it than to need it and not have it?"

"I shouldn't need drugs to deal with what happened," he insisted.

"Maybe you won't," she conceded, "but what would you say if it was Mom, or me, or one of the other kids? What would you tell Olivia if it was her?"

Maureen knew that, while her father was as protective of his partner as he was of any woman, he considered her a slightly different breed of female because she was a cop. In some circumstances, he expected more from her than he would from his own wife and daughters, and this would probably be one of those instances, but if he would agree that it was ok for his partner to take a Valium for a panic attack, then he could be persuaded to keep them on hand for himself, just in case.

He looked at her sullenly. "Put them in my sock drawer," he finally said.

She placed his morning medication in his hand and handed him the water so he could swallow the pills. Then, she quietly set the Valium on the nightstand with the other bottles. Her gesture told him more eloquently than words that she thought it was nothing to be ashamed of.

He gave her a weak smile of surrender, and said, "Ok, have it your way." Swallowing the tablets in a single gulp, he muttered, "I'm going to rattle like a damned maraca."

"Only until the pills dissolve," Maureen said with a wink.

_16th Precinct_

_Special Victims Unit_

_8:00 A.M., November 20, 2005_

"Ok, let's get this over with," Annelle O'Keefe Othmer said, "It's not like I have all day."

"Of course, Mrs. Othmer," Munch said agreeably, "May I take your coat?"

She untied the belt of the long chocolate-colored suede coat with the ermine collar and cuffs and then stood holding her arms in such a way that Munch could easily slip it off her. As he took it to the coat rack in the corner of the interview room, he asked Olivia, "Miss Benson, would you mind getting us some coffee?"

"Yes, Sir," Olivia nodded and asked, "How do you take it, Mrs. Othmer?"

"Black," she said, "no sugar."

"Yes, ma'am."

She left the room, not just to get the coffee as Munch had asked, but also to let him start the little charade Fin had instigated the previous day. While Olivia was out of the room, Munch had to apologize and make nice, and when she returned, she was supposed to pose as his subordinate. Annie was obviously entrenched in the culture of the wealthy, and accustomed to having servants around, so a servile assistant would quickly become invisible to her and she might do or say something in front of Olivia that would give up some information she would not otherwise disclose. That was the theory, anyway.

"Before we begin, Mrs. Othmer, I would like to apologize for my partner's behavior last evening," John said obsequiously once his 'assistant' had left the room. "Between you and me, Detective Tutuola is a good cop, but when you grow up in a certain type of neighborhood, you learn that the only way to achieve anything is through intimidation. He does well in most aspects of the job, but he is much better suited to dealing with suspects, not pillars of the community such as yourself."

"Yes, well, I suppose I could overlook it just this once," she suggested, "but if it were to happen again, he would be hearing from my lawyer. I am sure there is some kind of statute protecting citizens from harassment by officers such as him."

"There certainly is, ma'am, but you have my personal guarantee," Munch placed a hand over his heart, "that it won't happen again."

"Yes, well, see that it doesn't, Detective," she admonished him.

Liv, who had been waiting on the other side of the mirrored glass, took that as her cue to return. Picking up the tray with coffee, mugs, and pastries that she had prepared, she went round to the interview room and knocked softly before she entered. Once she was let in, she set the tray down, and poured Mrs. Othmer a cup of steaming, dark French roast, a somewhat better blend than the detectives in the squad usually drank which Munch had purchased that morning specifically for this interview. Then she fixed Munch's for him, with two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream. Of course, she knew how John took his coffee because they had been colleagues for so long, but for Mrs. Othmer, it would appear that she was nothing more than a well-trained assistant.

"Would you like a pastry or a muffin, Mrs. Othmer?" he offered.

"Perhaps a cheese Danish," she said.

Smiling, feeling rather like Teller, the magician Penn's silent sidekick, Olivia picked up a Danish with a napkin and placed it on a small paper plate, then, as with the coffee, she showed what a good little helper she was by automatically selecting something Munch would like and placing it before him.

"You might as well have something, too, Miss Benson, since you seem to have brought an extra cup and a surplus of pastries," Munch suggested with an indulgent smile when Olivia took her seat at the corner of the table without a drink or snack.

"Thank you, Sir," she said and fixed her coffee, dark and sweet, took a chocolate chip muffin, and returned to her place, sitting slightly hunched, with a legal pad beside her and pen in hand as if she wanted to avoid further notice. With her free hand, she plucked bites out of her muffin and sipped her coffee, all the while avoiding eye contact.

Munch looked at Mrs. Othmer and rolled his eyes as if to say, 'What's a body to do?' and began the conversation. "We certainly do appreciate your coming in to talk to us, especially so early on a Sunday," he said, oozing charm and gratitude.

"Well, I wish I could say it was my pleasure," she told him, tearing off part of the Danish, raising it to her lips and then putting it down without having bitten into it, "but I have to admit, if there was any way I thought I could avoid it, I wouldn't be here at all."

"I can understand that," John assured her, "and I am sorry for the inconvenience, but anything you can remember about Roger DeVane would be a help. We need to get him off the streets again."

"He was a disgusting, perverted man, and the time I spent with him was the biggest mistake of my life," she said defensively. "Does that help you?"

"Not so much, ma'am," John said patiently, "but from what we understand, you spent a lot of time in his company. What were his interests? What did he spend money on? Where might he be spending his time now?"

Annelle Othmer smoothed a hand over the red hair which was done up in an elaborate twist and then started nervously sliding the large diamond and emerald pendant she wore along its platinum chain.

"Why, I'm sure I don't know, Detective," she said. "Twelve years is a long time. I have changed and my interests have changed, and I am sure Mr. DeVane's have, too."

She could have smiled coyly, to show that she wasn't being entirely truthful. She could have smiled wickedly to show she was being deliberately difficult. She could even have smiled seductively, to show that she was either attracted to John or that she just wanted to torture him. But, the smile she gave him was a grimace of pure terror, and suddenly, Olivia, who had been surreptitiously watching every expression and gesture, knew that they were handling her all wrong. Munch was talking to Annelle Othmer, but Annie O'Keefe had been the one to date Roger DeVane. Glancing up to the two-way mirror, she pulled her earlobe and rolled her eyes toward the door, her prearranged signal to the captain to find a reason to pull Munch out of the interview. A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

John shot Olivia a look, and she got up to answer it. The captain stepped just into the room and said, "May I have a word, Detective Munch?"

John looked from Liv to Annie and then rose from his seat to follow his captain out of the room. Liv watched them go, and for a moment stared at the door behind them. Then she returned to her seat, took a swallow of her coffee, and tore off a bite of her muffin. She glanced back at the door again, trying to seem unsure whether she should continue the questioning without her 'superior.' Finally, she looked at the woman across from her and said, "I'm sure he'll be back any minute, now."

Liv nibbled at her muffin. Mrs. Othmer fidgeted with her jewelry, looked at her watch, sighed, stood up and paced, sat back down, looked at her watch, and sighed again.

"Oh, for goodness sake! I really do need to get going," she looked at Olivia and said, "Don't you know what he's going to ask? You're the one who came ready to take notes, obviously he trusted you to write everything down for him anyway."

"Well, I guess he wouldn't mind," Olivia replied, trying to appear a little uneasy. She sat up straighter and wrote the date on her yellow legal pad. "May I call you Annie?"

Mrs. Othmer's expression softened, and she nodded.

"Ok, and I'm Olivia," she said, wondering if she shouldn't treat Annie more like a victim than a reluctant witness. "Annie, we need to know everything you can remember about Roger DeVane. Men like him are creatures of habit. Knowing what he used to do twelve years ago is what will help us figure out what he is going to do now, and that is how we're going to catch him. Do you know anything about where he liked to shop or eat, what he did for fun? Anything at all?"

Annie just shook her head. Olivia sighed and took another swallow of coffee.

"Ok, this is going nowhere," Munch said impatiently in the observation room on the other side of the two-way mirror. "It's time to stop kowtowing to the little social climber and start asking her some hard questions."

"Hold on," Cragen said, and took hold of his detective's arm as he turned to go. "Olivia hasn't given the signal yet."

"All this time, I kept telling myself that we did nothing wrong," Annie said in the other room. "Even after he was arrested, I didn't want to believe it."

_An Ill Wind_

Maureen was flipping through the Sunday morning news programs when her dad finally came limping out of the guest bedroom. She quickly switched to cartoons.

"How ya doin'?" she asked, then frowned and added, "Aren't you supposed to be using a crutch to walk?"

"I guess I'm ok," he said, "and I didn't really feel like I needed it. My ankle doesn't hurt."

"Because you took Percodan half an hour ago," she reminded him. Then she asked, "And why are you limping if it doesn't hurt?" Without waiting for an answer, she walked right by him into the guest room. Returning with his crutch, she held it out to him and said, "Here. Use it."

For about half a minute, he stared at her stubbornly, but she stared back, and he was struck by how much alike they were. He also realized that, for the moment she was in better shape than he was, and she could probably stand there all day. He on the other hand had about two minutes to sit down before he fell down. Reluctantly accepting the crutch, he used it to help himself hobble over to the couch. Then he slowly settled himself amidst the cushions and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

"Looks like you could use some help with your shoes," Maureen noted. The backs were squashed down by his heels and he hadn't bothered to tie them.

"They're fine," he said.

Maureen put a hand on her hip and cocked her head at him.

"Ok, fix them," he surrendered, knowing he wasn't going to get any peace in a house full of women, and realizing instantly how much he had missed the constant henpecking from all of them. He couldn't help but smile slightly.

"What?" Maureen asked when he saw his expression.

"I think it would make you mad if I told you."

"Whatever," she shrugged as she sat on the edge of the coffee table and slipped his shoes on his feet properly and tied them for him.

"You know, you shouldn't be so stubborn about accepting help," she admonished him. "One of these days, you'll have to get used to it."

Frowning, he asked, "Why?"

"Because Kathleen and I have already talked it over. When you get old, we're _not_ putting you in a home." She moved toward the kitchen for something.

"Well, with any luck, I won't _get_ old," he muttered, not thinking she'd hear.

"Don't _say_ that," Maureen said, and she was instantly back at his side, and before he knew what was happening, she had tears running down her face.

"Oh, Sweetheart, I didn't mean it like that," he assured her. "Please, sit down, here beside me." He moved a couple of cushions and tugged on her arm.

She took a seat next to him, and he brushed away her tears. Pulling her into a one-armed hug, he kissed the top of her head and said, "I just don't ever want to be a burden on you. I hate this, the way things are now. You should never have to take care of me."

Turning slightly, she looked up at him and said, "Daddy, you've got it all wrong. All the while I was growing up, you and Mom took care of me, of all of us kids. Now that I'm grown, when you need help, it's my _job_ to take care of you. What do you think people did before there were nursing homes and home healthcare?"

"Set them adrift on ice floes in the Hudson?" he smirked.

She gave him a stricken look and whined, "Daddy!"

He adjusted his expression to one of compassion and asked her, "You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

She nodded. "Since I was fourteen and the church youth group helped with the Christmas mass at a nursing home," she said. "It smelled of pee and vomit. Some of the old people hadn't been bathed. The men weren't shaved and the women hadn't even had their hair combed. I'll never do that to you."

Concerned for his daughter, he asked, "Do you remember what it was like when your grandpa got sick?" He meant Kathy's dad, the kids had never known their grandpa Stabler, and he had never figured that was a bad thing.

"Sort of," Maureen said. "I know it wasn't easy, but it's not always supposed to be, is it?"

"I can be pretty hard to get along with," he said, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Trust me, I know," she followed his lead, "but I've put up with you for over twenty years already."

He tickled her, and she jumped, barely stifling a squeal because the rest of the house was still asleep. Like her dad, she had always been an early riser. All of her siblings followed their mother's lead, showing up for breakfast around lunchtime whenever they could get away with it.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"It won't be a burden, either, anymore than I was to you. It will be a privilege to pay you back just a little for all the love that you have given me."

He felt himself choke up and used his hand to incline her head so he could give her another kiss on her hair. "When did you get so grown up?" He whispered because he didn't trust his voice.

"When I was following in your footsteps," she said. "That's why you never saw it happening. I was right behind you all the time."


	8. Revealing the Past

_**An Ill Wind  
Chapter Eight**_

_**Revealing the Past**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
8:30 A.M, November 20, 2005_

"What kinds of things did you and DeVane do?" Olivia asked, hoping like hell the woman would get right to the point.

"You have to understand who I was then," Annie said. "I was just twenty-one, and I'd never really been with a man before. I mean, my boyfriend and I had fooled around in the back seat of his Mustang out parking by the lake, but sex? Never.

"When I finally got out of DeKalb Junction," she said the name of her hometown as if it left a bad taste in her mouth, "what did I do but enroll in Barnard? A women's college for heaven's sake!"

Annie pinched the bridge of her nose as if thinking back so many years was giving her a headache. Olivia sat waiting patiently, only able to hope that some useful information was forthcoming. In the observation room on the other side of the one-way glass, John grunted, "No wonder she took up with a freak like DeVane. It's just unnatural for the sexes to remain segregated that way."

Cragen shushed him with a wave of his hand and a "Whatever, John."

"Well, after I got my degree, a B.S. in Brit Lit, _magna cum laude_, by the way, I thought I'd get an editing job at one of the publishing houses in the city. Of course, I had no idea that a B.S. really was just BS, if you know what I mean."

Olivia sympathized, even though she wanted to grab the woman by the throat and shake the story out of her. "One thing a humanities education never prepares you for is the fact that there aren't that many jobs out there requiring a humanities education."

"Exactly! Every other liberal arts grad in the state expected to be an editor or copywriter just like I did, so it wasn't as easy to make a living as I had expected it to be. That's how I wound up working at Lenny's."

Olivia nodded, and, trying to move things along, she supplied, "And that's where you met DeVane. It's called Mac's now, by the way."

Annie nodded. "I remember when Lenny changed the name. That was sad. It will always be Lenny's to me, though."

She fell quiet a moment, waxing nostalgic, and then she took up her story again. "Anyway, when you come from a place like I did, DeKalb Junction is in the armpit of nowhere, you know, well, if you can escape, people expect something of you." She got a haunted look on her face as she spoke, and Olivia knew the young Annie O'Keefe had felt tremendous pressure to succeed in the city.

"I had my degree. I was supposed to become someone important. Everyone wanted to see my name in lights. A waitress living in a fifth-floor walk-up studio apartment with an agoraphobic roommate and a diabetic cat was not their idea of success, though it was rather convenient to have the roommate home to feed the cat on schedule."

She smiled at the memory despite herself, and Olivia suspected that in a lot of ways, she missed her simple, anonymous life.

"Back home, though, they wouldn't know the difference between that and a penthouse apartment in midtown Manhattan, so I lied about my life and sent them postcards of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. I'd buy Christmas gifts at thrift stores and package them in Macy's and Bloomingdale's boxes, and I'd read the restaurant section of the newspaper and pretend I'd actually been to those places, and everyone in DeKalb Junction thought I had made it."

When Annie fell silent for several moments, Olivia asked softly, "Where did Roger DeVane fit in?"

Annie started tearing the cheese Danish to bits again. "I had always been my mother's good girl," she said. "I didn't date until I was seventeen. When my boyfriend got too serious, I broke it off. I was supposed to make something of myself, and I couldn't do that if I got pregnant. That's what my mom had done, and from the time I was in elementary school, she kept telling me not to make her mistakes. I followed the rules, did what I was told, graduated valedictorian of my high school class, focused on my studies in college, and when I was twenty-two, I was working for five bucks an hour plus tips at a bar."

Olivia could feel the defeat and depression Annie had experienced and she felt sorry for the woman. It was no wonder DeVane had found her an easy mark.

"Roger was . . . attentive . . . affectionate. He took me to shows and concerts and out to nice places to eat. He bought me nice gifts, jewelry, mostly, and a beautiful pair of fur-lined gloves for the winter. He didn't want to date me, he wooed me. It was almost two months before he tried for anything more than a kiss goodnight."

"Sounds like he was the perfect gentleman."

"Oh, he was, at least with me. At first he was, anyway."

Olivia resisted the urge to sigh, roll her eyes, and make hand gestures to move the story along. Annie had kept her secrets for twelve years, and it would take patience and gentle persuasion to get her to give them up after all this time, especially since she had so much more to lose now.

"What happened then?" she asked quietly.

"Eventually our relationship got physical," Annie said. "First it was just regular missionary position, then doggie style, then other things. He was very understanding with me. He knew I was . . . uninitiated, and he gradually introduced me to different . . . activities."

Annie's voice had grown husky as she talked about her relationship with DeVane, and it appalled and amazed Liv that, even knowing what he had done to thos elittle girls, the woman could be aroused by the memories. It was a struggle, but she managed to keep her tone nonjudgmental when she asked, "What 'activities'?"

"One night, before I knew what hit me, he had my hands cuffed to the headboard over my head and my feet chained to the foot of the bed. And the things he did to my body!" She closed her eyes and shivered with the memory. "I had _never_ felt that way before."

"He didn't pressure me, ever, but he had a knack for getting me to do things I couldn't imagine myself doing before I met him. He liked to show me off, or to have me show myself off. He would have me dress like a slut and we would go to clubs and, well, places that sold sex stuff. I trusted him, and he never harmed me. Things gradually became kinkier, and he liked to use toys and costumes. He'd ask me to dress like a little girl and pretend I'd been naughty and he'd spank me or whip me with a cat o'nine tails."

Liv struggled to suppress a shudder. In her opinion, the woman had enjoyed the role-playing and bondage far too much, but expressing her thoughts on the matter wouldn't help their investigation, so she held her tongue.

"Olivia's keeping it together really well," Munch observed. He wasn't sure he could have stomached being in the room with Annie as she got off reminiscing about her affair with a convicted violent child molester.

"She knows what we need from this interview," Cragen told him. "She's gonna make sure we get it."

"I knew it was sick and perverse," Annie continued, oblivious to the conversation in the other room, "but I rationalized it by telling myself we were two consenting adults. That rush, the pain, even the anticipation of pain, and the fear that someone would find out, the anxiety knowing he could do whatever he wanted to to do to me when I was tied up that way, it took me places I never knew were possible. I got high from it, it was that incredible."

Annie now spoke in a breathless whisper, her eyes wide and shining, her pupils dilated, her cheeks flushed, and it was clear what effect her memories were having on her. Olivia had no doubt that if the woman were alone, she would not be sitting primly in a straight-backed chair now. After letting Annie dwell on her memories for a few more moments, Liv asked, "So, what went wrong?"

Annie gave a disgusted snort of laughter. "He got arrested."

Slowly her eyes filled with tears that overflowed dragging the dark tracks of her mascara with them. She gave a little shudder and then she was weeping openly. At first, considering how aroused Annie had been during the telling of her story, Liv wondered if this was some unusual sort of climax, but then she realized that the other woman was genuinely upset.

"Annie, what's wrong?" Liv pleaded. "Please, you have to tell me. It might help us catch him."

"I had heard about those little girls, the ones he hurt . . . I knew it was happening, but when people talked about it, I just tuned it out. I couldn't listen. That kind of thing . . . " She gestured uselessly with her hands. "My best friend in school . . . what was done to her . . . It just makes me so sad to hear about it, so I never listened."

"But . . . " Olivia coaxed her.

"After Rog was arrested, I listened, and I figured out that he was . . . that he had . . . Oh, God, he'd been practicing on _me_!"

Annie put her arms on the table, rested her head on them, and broke down sobbing.

_Residence of Muriel Faringo  
154 Clinton Street, Manhattan  
9:08 A.M., November 20, 2005_

After putting on his latex gloves, Fin moved the black and yellow crime scene tape aside and then, using the keys he had borrowed from the evidence locker, let himself into Muriel Faringo's apartment. While he didn't deny part of him was hoping to find the vital clue to locating DeVane, the main reason for his visit was to get a sense of what Muriel and Elliot had gone through during the attack. Listening to Elliot's frightened voice on the captain's cassette player had been surreal, almost like a bad dream, and he needed this to make the attack and the case true in his mind.

From the doorway, he took in the layout of the apartment. He didn't know what Muriel Faringo did for a living, but judging from the décor, it had provided her with an ample income. He wondered if she didn't have a trust fund, too. A short entry hall brought him into a pleasant, homey, very tidy, Country French style living room. The other side of the space had a wide door that opened onto a kitchen on the left and a dining room on the right with an island between the two defining the separate areas. Through the multi-paned glass back door, he could see a small patio with some cedar and cast-iron furniture and a well-tended back yard.

Deciding to save his investigation of the lower story for later, Fin climbed the stairs to the upper floor. According to Elliot's statement, he had never made it that far into the house, but DeVane might have, so this exploration was all about getting to know Muriel and finding out what had happened before Elliot arrived.

At the top of the stairs was a linen closet. Fin opened it and smiled when the sweet scent of lilies of the valley caressed his senses. The smell always reminded him of the old ladies at his grandma's church when he was a kid and how they would pinch his chubby cheeks and give him candy and tell him he was as cute as a button. The upper shelves were filled with neat stacks of crisp, clean bedding while the lower ones held towels and washcloths in brilliant white, rich cream, soft pink, and stripes of the same shades. On the bottom shelf was a stash of extra toilet paper and Kleenex, some soap, bubble bath, and other ordinary bathroom supplies, a plunger, and bottles of bathtub and toilet bowl cleaner.

Knowing that closets were popular places for hiding secrets, he searched carefully between and behind the towels and bedding. All he found was an enema kit and a package of feminine hygiene supplies. If those were Muriel Faringo's worst secrets, then she lived a pretty dull life. Out of respect for the dead woman, he replaced the bedding and the linens in their neat stacks and rows, like good little soldiers just waiting for her to come home.

Moving into the bedroom, Fin discovered evidence of an neat freak personality. The bed was perfectly made, with the cream, pink, and white stripes on the comforter running straight from the headboard to the footboard. Matching curtains hung stiffly at both windows, and the starched ruffles on the pillow shams stood up perkily. The white stool at the vanity and the white window seat were cushioned in matching stripes and ruffles, and the cream carpet showed not the slightest sign of wear.

On the nightstand beside the bed were a well-worn King James Bible and a newer Revised Standard Version along with a copy of _The Upper Room_, which was open and lying face down beside the Bibles. He picked the devotional magazine up, and wasn't surprised to find it was open to the date of the attack. The whole atmosphere of the home indicated that Muriel Faringo was a devout woman. On the wall between the two closets was a portrait of Jesus, above the bed was a plaque with an image of praying hands, and on the chest of drawers was a framed painting with the Lord's Prayer in delicate calligraphy.

Fin opened the King James Bible to the day's scripture and found notes in the margin in an elegant handwriting. Checking the Revised Standard Version, he found similar notations, and he knew, although she was religious, Muriel didn't cloak herself in blind faith. She was studious about it, not simply reading the scripture, but thinking about what the words meant and how she was supposed to apply them to her own life. Fin wondered what she had said when Elliot heard her praying, and he hoped her faith had brought her comfort at the end.

Opening the closets, he found her clothes as he would expect them to be, all neatly arranged by category and color, the skirts, blouses, and trousers in one closet, the dresses and suits together in the other with a canvas shoe holder beside them and a couple of coats and jackets pushed to the back. In the chest of drawers, he found more of the same. Even her socks and bras were folded in neat little stacks. He looked through the drawers, carefully replacing things as he did so, and again found nothing notable.

At the other end of the upstairs hall was a guest bedroom, done all in yellow and, if it were possible, more compulsively neat than Muriel's own room. There was also a spare room fitted out as an office with a large L-shaped computer desk with a hutch, matching bookshelves, and a file cabinet. The wooden office chair had a cream and green seat cushion. A pair of bookends, made to look like potted plants, was situated diagonally between the computer and the flat writing surface and held a copy of _The Chicago Manual of Style_, _Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary_, _Roget's International Thesaurus_, _On Writing Well_, _Webster's New World Speller/Divider_, and the 2006 _Writer's Market_.

When Fin pulled the chain, a brass banker's lamp with a green shade illuminated a manuscript on the desk blotter, _One Fine Day_ by Malcolm Carlisle. In red ink, using the same fine penmanship with which she had made notes in her Bibles, Muriel had commented on the story. Fin glanced through it, skimmed a page or two, and laughed slightly. She had been less than impressed, and he could see why. The dialog was obviously some upper-class intellectual's attempt at sounding like a ghetto dwelling Hispanic, and Fin's own DD5's were more interesting. The most engaging thing about the sorry piece of work was the number of kind ways Muriel had found to say, 'This sucks.'

Finally, Fin went back the hall to the bathroom. The towels hung straight on the towel bar, perfect, vertical stripes running up and down them. The shower curtain and bath mat matched them perfectly. The fringes on the bathmat lay perfectly straight along the floor, and the ruffles on the shower curtain and the drapes at the frosted window, just like in the bedroom, were stiff and frilly. The bathtub and shower wall were pristine white and shiny, as was the sink and the commode with its gleaming porcelain. A curling iron and blow dryer hung from hooks on either side of the streak-free mirror, and there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. The brush and comb were clean, not a single stray hair caught in them, and the toothpaste was squashed perfectly flat from the bottom up. Cotton balls and swabs sat in a pair of sparkling glass jars on either corner of the counter, and mousse and hairspray were centered behind the faucet.

Fin looked inside the medicine cabinet, knowing that the CSU would have already taken any prescription medications, but wondering what else he might find. As he expected, every little thing was in its place. A tube of Neosporin lay beside a box of bandages; Tylenol, Excedrin, One-A-Day, and Vitamin C tablets sat in a neat row on the top shelf, though there was a suspicious gap in the middle, like a missing tooth. Containers of disposable contacts were stacked in the lower right corner, and the storage case, saline, and cleaning solution for the current pair occupied the lower left corner. Her makeup lined the middle shelf, with her deodorant at the end.

Fin headed back down the stairs, watching his feet as he walked, looking for anything the CSU might have overlooked, when he saw something that made him stumble down the last three steps to the bottom. His head swam, his heart moved into his throat, and he had to swallow several times to fight down the sudden nausea. When Cragen played back the statement Elliot had made, it sounded as if he hadn't been able to struggle all that much, but right here before him was evidence to the contrary. At the bottom of the banister, in an inch-wide ring that went halfway around the post, all the paint was stripped off, and there was a gouge in the wood perhaps half an inch deep where the handcuff chains had begun to saw through the wood. Some of the sawdust was spattered with blood. Whatever he might have said, Elliot had fought like hell.

Suddenly, Fin felt the overwhelming urge to contact his colleague, to offer some kind of comfort and support, but he knew that was a bad idea. Elliot wouldn't be comfortable talking to him about anything at the moment. The only thing Fin or anyone else in the squad could do to help him right now was to catch DeVane and make sure he got the death penalty, and even that wouldn't be a comfort, it would just bring satisfaction to know the pervert could never hurt anyone again.

Finally tearing his eyes away from the damage to the banister, Fin began his survey of the bottom floor of Muriel Faringo's home. The first thing he found was the spot where Elliot had gotten sick, and again, he felt the need to call and offer some encouraging words. He shook off the feeling, knowing anything he said to Elliot right now would be more for his own comfort than for his friend's. He went back to the entryway, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he tried to imagine what Elliot had seen.

Muriel Faringo was directly ahead of him, bound to that chair. Just as Elliot would have done, Fin pulled his gun and swept the room. He had the luxury of knowing there was no immediate threat, so he took his time looking around. Still, he didn't see any place where DeVane might have been hiding, laying in wait for the unwary detective. Moving into the room, he stopped again, about halfway to the chair where Muriel had been tied, and turned in a circle, looking about him carefully, and that's when he saw it.

The drapes at the front window were somewhat wider than the window itself, giving an impression of greater size and filling some of the blank space on the large wall. The left one was not hanging perfectly, and without checking, Fin knew the reason why. Moving over towards the window, he carefully looked behind the curtain. It was a substantial, olive-colored fabric with a rubbery, insulating lining, thick enough to conceal an elephant. There was a run in the lacy sheer behind the drape where something had caught the delicate threads and pulled them. An overturned plant had fallen from the windowsill, as well, and in the dirt on the floor was a curved void in the shape of the toe end of a shoe. Muriel would never have left this mess here. At least he could tell Elliot that he hadn't screwed up. With all the pleats in the ample, heavy fabric of the drape, there was no way in hell anyone would have spotted a man hiding back there unless they went and moved the curtains aside.

Nodding to himself, Fin went back once again to the entrance and moved into the room, retracing Elliot's footsteps. The walls were painted in a rich olive shade with cream baseboards and molding, and those colors were echoed in the toile furniture covers. Matching rugs were scattered about on the hardwood floors, and again, Fin noticed that the fringes of the rugs were laid out just so. To his left, near the stairs, was a high-backed, skirted chair. He stood facing it and thought about what had happened. Elliot was a little taller than he was, but Fin didn't doubt that being forced to bend over the back of it would lift the other detective off his feet. There were blood spatters on the seat of the chair and on the floor just beyond, the sight of which, knowing how it got there, made Fin queasy. He swallowed hard, and moved on.

A luxurious settee sat at angles with a matching sofa and armchair, the three pieces gathered for conversation around a low coffee table. There were three picture frames of various sizes on the coffee table along with a vase of sad-looking flowers and a book, _The OCD Workbook: Your Guide to Breaking Free of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder_.

Fin nodded, not at all surprised by the discovery. He got the impression that Muriel had been a thoughtful, intellectual woman. Just as she had studied her Bible and sought to understand what its ancient lessons meant to her modern life, so she had studied her disease in an effort to escape her demons. He wondered if she would have been that way if DeVane had not attacked her as a child or if the abduction had been the trauma that had started her off on a lifelong mental illness. It explained a lot about the excessive tidiness he had observed throughout the home. He wondered if DeVane had missed seeing the book or if he just didn't know what OCD was. Certainly, if he had understood anything about Muriel's compulsions, the sick freak would have trashed her entire home just to torture her. Fin was grateful for her sake that it hadn't happened.

Beyond the sofa, things were different. It was easy to identify the chair Muriel had been tied to by the copious bloodstains on and around it. Also, it didn't fit with the living room furnishings, and had obviously come from the dining area. Given her disorder, Fin knew Muriel would never have let it sit there.

The struggle had obviously happened in this part of the house. The rug was disheveled, some decorative little porcelain items had been knocked off the sideboard, and a side table in what was obviously a favorite reading spot had been upended, scattering books and papers across the accompanying chaise and onto the floor. Dirty footprints came in from the back yard, across the cream-colored kitchen tile, and into the living room.

Fin could imagine Muriel, frantic with worry about DeVane's release, sitting on the sofa trying to calm herself by working through her _OCD Workbook, _or sitting on the chaise by the window, commenting on a manuscript. A noise disturbed her, and she marked her place and put the book down. Had she got up to check the source of the sound only to find the mess on the floor and be attacked when she went to clean it? Or had DeVane gotten as far as the couch and snatched her from behind? Fin shook his head. He didn't suppose it really mattered.

He could see footprints in the blood on the floor, barefoot prints, and he knew they were Muriel's. She had fought her attacker here, suffered, and died here, all within a few feet of where Elliot had been assaulted. She had watched what was done to him, probably knowing all along what was in store for her, and when given the opportunity, she had pleaded with her attacker and then prayed, not for herself, but for the cop who had been unable to save her. Elliot, already brutalized and helpless, did the only thing he could and tried to draw DeVane's attention back to himself. Awed in so many ways by the drama that had unfolded here, Fin felt a shudder move through him and wondered if he would have had the courage of either of the victims had he been in their position.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head, trying to clear it of the unwelcome, gory images that kept coming to mind. Then he wandered further into the house. Knowing that he had already seen everything that mattered, he took only a perfunctory look around the kitchen and dining area. The chairs around the dining table matched the one that had been moved to the living room. The Country French décor continued with the obligatory rooster and peasant life motifs. A well-kept herb garden grew in trays in a bay window. Another bouquet of wilting flowers decorated the table, and a wire basket of fruit sat on the island. A cookbook, open to a recipe for chicken with forty cloves of garlic, lay on the counter. Copper cookware hung from a rack over the stove, and a set of knives in a block sat on the work surface near the sink. Everything seemed to be in order, just waiting for Muriel to come back. She would clean the dirty footprints off the floor, straighten the fringes on the doormat, and start her chicken for dinner.

Fin sighed sadly and left the apartment, determined to get the man who had murdered Muriel Faringo and the Gardeners and assaulted his friend.

_The Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
9:17 A.M., November 20, 2005_

"Daddy?"

Elliot opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was a little past nine in the morning. He sat up with a groan and shook his head to clear it. After his nightmares and early awakening, he had gone back to bed for a little nap at about eight thirty.

"Don't forget the butter and syrup," he heard, and he could smell coffee and bacon and eggs from the kitchen. Kathy was out of bed and fixing breakfast for the kids.

"What is it, Baby?" he asked of his middle daughter, Kathleen, as she stood there in her flannel nightgown looking at him worriedly.

She held the phone toward him and said softly, "It's someone named Melinda Warner. She says you work together. I told her you weren't feeling well, but she insisted on talking with you. She wouldn't even speak to Mom. I'm sorry to wake you. Do you want me to ask her to call back?"

"No, Sweetie, that's all right. Get your mom, though, please?" He took the phone and waited until Kathy arrived.

"What is it, El?" his wife asked a moment later.

"I don't know yet," he said softly so the kids wouldn't hear, "but I think the ME might have done an HIV test on the . . . samples they took the other night. That's the only reason Warner would call me at home now. Shut the door, would you?"

Kathy did as he asked, but before the door closed, he saw his two eldest daughters watching from the living room with concerned expressions. He patted the mattress beside him and gave his wife an imploring look. When Kathy was seated next to him, he held the phone to his ear and said, "Yeah, Doc, this is Elliot. What's up?"

He frowned as he listened to the voice at the other end of the line, suspecting the worst but needing to hear it before he could accept it.

"No, my wife is here with me." He wanted Kathy to be holding his hand, but he couldn't do that and hold the phone, too, and the phone wasn't shaped to easily cradle against his shoulder so he had to settle for just being close to her. "Look, if this is about DeVane's HIV status, don't torture me. Just tell me, ok?"

When her husband dropped his head and closed his eyes, Kathy knew the news was bad. She placed a hand on his arm and waited for whatever might happen next.

"No, I'm not ok, but I'm not surprised either," Elliot said into the phone in a shaky voice.

"Yeah, I know the odds, but when you could _be_ that one-in-a-thousand it doesn't matter a hell of a lot how small they are." The tremor in his voice began to take over his body. He went pale and began to gasp for breath, which obviously caused him pain, but he seemed powerless to stop it.

"Thanks for calling, Doc . . . Look, I gotta go," he lied. "We're getting ready to go to mass." He hadn't been awake to be consulted, but apparently, someone had convinced his wife that they all needed to sleep in and enjoy a lazy Sunday. Now, he was really wishing that they had gone and left him home alone. He didn't want his children to see him like this.

He pressed the button that turned off the phone and let it slip out of his hand to the floor. Then he cradled his head in his hands moaned.

"He's positive, isn't he?" Kathy asked.

Elliot nodded. "Oh, God," he was still shaking and breathing much too fast. "What am I going to do? I can't deal with this, Kath. I can't take any more."

He stood up and began pacing the small room, limping on his bad ankle. "I want to see my kids grow up, Kath. I want to give my girls away at their weddings. I want to have grandchildren. What am I gonna do?"

Kathy moved to stand in front of him, and when he paced toward her, she gently placed her hands on his shoulders. "You're going to do the only thing you can do, Elliot. You're going to take the drugs and pray that they work."

"But what if they don't?" he demanded looking at her fearfully. "Then what?"

"Then you will have your family and friends to take care of you," she assured him and tried to draw him into a hug, but he turned away from her embrace and started pacing again, rapidly shifting from fear and distress to outright panic.

"That's not good enough, Kath. It just isn't good enough! What have I done? What have I let happen to us? What did I do to deserve this! I…I need some air. I have to get out of here!" He staggered to the door, out of the room, and down the hall to the front door.

Kathy followed him as he rambled out of the house, muttering incoherently. She noticed gratefully that Maureen had somehow corralled the children in the kitchen and had them busily occupied preparing breakfast. When Elliot went out on the porch, she grabbed his jacket and followed him. He paced back and forth for a few minutes before he more or less collapsed onto the top step. Sitting there, he rocked back and forth and continued panting.

"I can't breathe . . . Kath," he said, tapping his chest. "It hurts . . . Why can't I breathe?"

"You're just scared, Baby," she told him soothingly, draping the jacket around his shoulders and moving to crouch before him.

"No, Kath . . . my chest hurts . . . Why is my heart pounding? . . . What's wrong with me?"

"Mom, I think he's having a panic attack," Maureen said through the screen door.

"Go back in the house, Maureen!" Kathy snapped at her eldest.

Ignoring her mother, Maureen came outside carrying a pill bottle and a glass of water. "Kathleen is cooking the last of the breakfast, and the twins are setting the table," she said. Reaching past her dad, she handed her mother the tablets first. "The doctor gave him these. Maybe he should take one."

Kathy read the bottle, "Valium?" She hadn't looked too closely at any of Elliot's medications yet. She had collected them from the pharmacy in a state of shock the previous evening and had intended to sort them out in the morning. While she was grateful that her daughter had taken care of it for her, she was also surprised that Elliot had let his baby girl know about such adult problems.

"No!" Elliot snapped. "I don't . . . don't need them. Just . . . just let me . . . catch my breath." He sat on the step rocking and muttering, clearly in distress. "What am . . . I going . . . to tell the kids? What am . . . I going . . . to do now?"

Kathy shook one of the pills out in her hand, passed the bottle back to Maureen, and accepted the glass of water. "Now go back in the house, Honey," she said, more gently this time, "and thank you."

Without watching to be sure her daughter obeyed, she turned her attention to her husband.

"Kath . . . still can't breathe . . . gonna . . . pass out . . . Help me, Kath . . . please."

"Elliot, Baby, you're all right," she said soothingly. "You've had a rough couple of days, and you just got some bad news. That's why you're so upset, but you'll be ok. You just need to calm down. This will help you."

She held the little white pill in front of him, and he looked away, still refusing the medication. "No . . . don't need it." His voice was weak and breathy as he continued to hyperventilate.

"Elliot," her voice was gentle but insistent as she said his name, and when he looked at her, she smiled kindly and said, "It's ok. It will help."

He hesitated a moment more before he took the pill from her, and when he finally did, he was shaking so badly he almost dropped it. He placed the tablet on his tongue, and then, so he didn't spill, Kathy helped him hold the glass so he could drink. Once he had finished the water, she sat beside him on the step, placed an arm around his shoulders, and spoke soothing words into his ear as he leaned against her and they waited together for the Valium to take effect.

_An Ill Wind_

Once Annie had told Olivia her terrible secret, she found it easier to talk about her past, and it had seemed perfectly natural for Munch to come in and take over the interview from his 'subordinate.' That freed 'Miss Benson' to join the captain on an interesting, informative, and oddly entertaining conference call.

"Yeah, what?" The grumbling voice obviously belonged to someone who had been awakened by the phone.

"Alphonse, it's Don Cragen."

"What? Who?"

"Don Cragen," the captain repeated louder. "Manhattan SVU?"

"Yeah, Donnie! Ya say that like I wouldn't remember ya. Jeeze, it hasn't been that long!" There were sounds of grunting and fumbling about and then, "Do ya have any idea what time it is? What the hell are ya callin' me this early for?"

"It's about twenty after nine, Alphonse," the captain said with a smirk.

"Yeah, but remember, Donnie, I ain't had to work for a livin' in eight years."

The captain couldn't resist a smile at Olivia who sat across the desk from him. "Alphonse, I have you on the speaker with one of my detectives, Olivia Benson. She's Elliot's current partner, and she needs to talk to you about an old case."

"Hi, Alphonse. I've heard a lot about you," Olivia said.

"Man, Elliot was right, you're gorgeous," the voice responded.

"Excuse me?" Olivia replied with a laugh.

"Yeah, not long after he met ya, Elliot called to tell me all about his new partner. He was real impressed with ya as a cop, but what he couldn't get over was what a babe ya were," As he spoke, Alphonse was sounding more animated. "He said he was almost afraid to have ya meet his wife 'cause she might get jealous."

"Elliot called me a babe? That doesn't sound like him!" Olivia hadn't really heard anything after that word.

"Nah, he just said ya were gorgeous, like a supermodel. I'm callin' ya a babe."

"How would you know?" Olivia asked with a laugh. "You can't see me. I could be an old crone with a wart on my nose and whiskers on my chin!"

"Yeah, but Elliot wouldn't lie to me like that. Besides, in my experience, women who have voices like yours _look _like they have voices like yours," Alphonse explained. "An' believe me, Olivia, ya have one sexy voice."

Olivia went slightly bug-eyed, looked at her captain, and started to blush. Wanting to rescue her from the effusive flattery, Don broke in. "About that case, Alphonse . . ."

"Yeah, Donnie, sure," the voice from the speaker broke in, "I'll help if I can, but why can't ya just ask Elliot?"

The captain looked at Olivia, and she cleared her throat and spoke. "He's . . . not in a position to help us right now," she said. "He's going to be all right, but he . . . He needs some time off."

"I don't like the sound of that," Alphonse said guardedly. "Donnie, what's she sayin'?"

"Elliot was attacked Friday night, Alphonse, by one of his old perps," Don said. "His injuries aren't critical or anything, but he was busted up. He's gonna be out for a few weeks at least."

"How? What happened?"

"Apparently, as soon as he got out, the guy started stalking his last victim. She called Elliot and he stopped by on his way home to look in on her," Olivia took up the story again. "The perp was already there and got the drop on him."

"Who was it? What was his name?"

"Roger DeVane."

"That son of a bitch!" Even through the speakerphone, both Olivia and the captain could feel Alphonse's hatred for the man, and they both unconsciously leaned back in their chairs away from the source.

"So you remember him," Cragen said. It wasn't a question.

"I sure as hell do! He damned near killed my partner!"

_An Ill Wind_

"Maureen knows," Kathy stated more than asked once the Valium had done its job and her husband's breathing had evened out.

Elliot nodded. "I . . . had a nightmare. She heard me and woke me from it."

Kathy sighed. "You've always talked in your sleep. Won't tell me what's on your mind, but you'll keep me awake at night muttering about it."

He gave her a shocked look and asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't the talking in your sleep that bothered me. It was the not talking to anyone when you clearly needed to get something off your chest that I couldn't take."

Dropping the subject, not wanting to rehash the same argument they'd had a thousand times, he asked instead, "What do we tell the kids?"

Kathy was silent a moment, and then asked gently, "Do you really want my opinion, or are you just asking me because it's what you think you're supposed to do?"

She could tell by his expression that he didn't like her question. For a moment, she saw anger in his eyes, but then they filled with tears. He squeezed his lids shut and looked away, covering his face with his good hand as he struggled for control. After a few moments, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. She heard him gasp and swallow back a sob, determined not to fall apart again, and she was encouraged when he didn't shrug her off. Finally he turned back to face her, and when she could see in his eyes how fragile he really was, she regretted her words.

"Elliot, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He shook his head. "It's a fair question," he sniffed. Then he took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow and held it for a moment. His admission, when he finally made it, stunned them both.

"I . . . need you to tell me . . . what to do," he said. "All the time . . . I keep thinking about what happened and wondering how I can keep my family safe when I can't even protect myself. I don't know what to do, Kathy, because right now, I don't trust myself to make the right decision about anything. Please, Kath, tell me what to say to the kids."

Kathy sighed lightly, wishing she could wrap her arms around him and take all the pain and fear away. She had always wished he'd been more emotionally available to her, but not like this. She hated to see him suffering so much fear and doubt. Reaching out, she took his good hand in hers before she began to speak.

"First of all, you don't have to tell them anything by yourself," she said. "I'll be there to help you, El. I'll always be there, ok?"

He met her gaze earnestly, and biting his lip uncertainly, he nodded.

"As far as what did happen, I wouldn't give them all the details, but I wouldn't lie, either," Kathy said. "They're smart kids, and they'll know if you if you start making things up to protect them."

"But what about the HIV exposure? How do I explain that?"

"You know the guy who beat you up, Elliot, and you know his history," she explained. "Given your injuries, the split lip, the wounds on your hand, the various cuts and scrapes, it would only be natural to want to know his HIV status."

"But how do I explain where they got the blood sample to test?"

Kathy shrugged. "He just got out of prison. They keep medical records, don't they?"

Elliot nodded, reluctantly conceding her point. "Yeah, I guess." There was a brief silence, then he asked, "Do you think the kids are old enough to tell them about something like this? I don't want to worry them."

"Elliot, they already know you're worried, we both are, and that has them worried, too. At least understanding why will make it easier on them," she tried to explain. "A lot of free-floating anxiety would be the worst thing in the world for them right now. Giving them one problem to focus on will help keep them from fretting about a thousand different scenarios."

"In other words, don't give them a chance to let their imaginations run wild," he paraphrased with a look of understanding.

"Exactly," Kathy said, and squeezed his hand. "Now, do you feel like some breakfast?"

He nodded noncommittally. "And then afterwards, we can talk to the kids, right?"

"That's the plan."

They stood up together and headed into the house, neither of them really feeling any better, but at least knowing how they were going to cope with the next few hours.


	9. The Rundown

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Nine  
The Rundown**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
9:20 A.M., November 20, 2005_

Olivia and Don exchanged a look, both of them surprised that nothing had ever been mentioned about Elliot's first, apparently nearly fatal, encounter with Roger Devane, and then after a gesture from the captain, Olivia spoke again.

"We're trying to find DeVane, Alphonse, but we keep hitting dead ends. I thought Elliot's notes on the old case might help us locate him this time, but when I pulled the file, I couldn't find anything about how Elliot figured out he was the perp or how he knew where to catch him. I was hoping you could give me some of the information that's missing."

"There's nothin' missin' from Elliot's notes. We never really knew who he was," Alphonse told them. "It was just plain dumb ass luck that Elliot caught the bastard. There was no police work involved."

Another look of confusion flew across the captain's desk in New York.

"Well, why don't you tell us how it happened, Alphonse?" Olivia coaxed.

"Yeah, all right," the retired detective said agreeably. "Well, it started with Elliot an' me gettin' saddled with a week of four-to-twelves. I still don't know who the hell we pissed off to deserve that on the Fourth of July weekend, but the good thing about it was we had the days off to spend with our families. 'Course, the bad things about it were all the kooks come out after dark, people drink too much on the holiday weekends, an' as hot as it was, tempers were short. We knew we were gonna have a lot of business."

Olivia couldn't resist a small chuckle. "That much hasn't changed," she said.

"Yeah, well, all the nuts roll down hill to Florida. Ya ought to come visit some time an' see what I mean. You have no idea how freaky people can get down here. Anyway, communication between the precincts wasn't what it is now, an' by the time Elliot an' I caught the Suzie Liu case, there had already been five attacks," Alphonse went on.

"Elliot was the one who discovered the pattern. It was the Friday before our night shift started, an' I was in court on another case, so he spent his afternoon makin' calls an' convincin' other detectives to fax him their reports whenever he found somethin' that looked like a match. When he took his findin's to Cap'n Christian, old Wild Bill wanted to take it away from him an' make me the primary." Now that he had started the story, the retired detective had dropped the banter and was all business . . .

_1993 _

_"I took the call, Captain," Elliot persisted, "I did the research, and right now I know this guy better than any cop in the five boroughs." _

_"I realize that," Bill Christian told his detective patiently, "and that's why I'm going to keep you on the case __**assisting**__ Alphonse."_

_"Damn it, Captain!" Elliot blurted in frustration, standing up as he did so. "I'm the lead investigator on this case. You can't take it away from me. It's my first time as the primary!"_

_"Will you sit down and shut up, Detective?"_

_Elliot practically leaped into the chair to comply. He knew the nickname 'Wild Bill' was a deliberate ironic misnomer. His Captain's surname, Christian, was a much more accurate reflection of his personality. William Christian was a life-long bachelor who didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't use profanity or tolerate it from his subordinates unless they were questioning a suspect, and had never, as far as his squad knew, had a romantic relationship with any woman, or man, for that matter. He kept a Bible in his office, which he often read when his work got him down and from which he could fluently quote long passages relevant to almost any subject discussed in the squad room. He was a good ten years older than most of his peers in the NYPD, yet he'd only had his captaincy for two years. Rumor had it he was a decade behind in his career because he had taken a few years off to pursue a Doctorate of Divinity from Columbia University and then waffled about for a while as he considered joining the priesthood._

_How much of the story was true, Elliot didn't know, but of one thing he was certain: When Captain Christian started throwing around harsh words like ' sit down and shut up' he was only a heartbeat away from putting a letter of reprimand in someone's jacket._

_"Now, Detective, do I have your attention?" the captain asked with deceptive calm._

_"Yes, Sir," Elliot replied respectfully._

_"Good." The captain paused a moment, ordering his thoughts. _

_"I know this case is important to you, Elliot," he said. "And if it were an ordinary case, I wouldn't dream of pulling you off as the lead investigator, but with something like this, well, there are other factors to consider."_

_Elliot frowned. "Sir?"_

_"This guy is bound to get noticed by the press, and when he does, there will be questions to answer," Christian explained gently. "Why did it take us so long to spot the pattern? Why aren't our best detectives working on it? Why did I put a rookie in charge?"_

_Elliot dropped his gaze to the floor, seeing for the first time the political side of things._

_"And God forbid he should go on for months and not get caught, then there will be serious fallout," the captain continued. "People will want a scapegoat. Who's to blame? Will he be punished? Worse yet, if the guy never gets caught, or if we catch him and can't get a conviction, why hasn't that cop been fired?_

_"Elliot, I can protect Alphonse if something like that happens. He has closed a lot of big cases over the years. He has a reputation that he can stand on, you don't. If I leave you as primary and things go badly, well, it will be a miracle if they only bust you back to patrol. I can guarantee you, if we don't put someone in jail for this, you'll be off the force. _

_"I know you're a good detective, Elliot, and when the time is right, I won't mind sticking my neck out for you, but it has to be a battle I have a chance of winning. This one, Son, it's a risk you don't want to take with your career. Do you understand?"_

_Elliot slowly looked up and met his captain's gaze. "Yes, Sir, I understand what you are saying, but . . . Isn't it my job to go after creeps like this? I didn't join this squad to have to watch my tail and duck and cover every time there might be some political fallout. I volunteered for this squad because there are a lot of perverts out there doing evil things to defenseless people and I want to stop them."_

_Leaning forward in his chair, Elliot continued earnestly, "Sir, you're talking about pulling me off as primary on this case under the assumption that I __**will**__ fail and that you __**can't**__ trust me to do my job. That tells me that you __**don't**__ think I'm a very good detective, and if that's how you feel, maybe I don't belong here."_

_Elliot watched the older man carefully as he bowed his head, and he wondered whether the captain was thinking or praying about the situation. After a moment, Christian looked up and asked, "What were you planning to do next?"_

_"I need to put the information I have up on the board in the bull pen and address the squad."_

_Captain Christian nodded. "Go do that, then."_

_"Yes, Sir," Elliot said gratefully._

_"But, Elliot," when the young man stopped and looked back at him, Bill added, "I haven't made my decision yet. I'll let you know by the end of the day whether it's you or Alphonse who will be running this one."_

_Elliot swallowed back a protest, knowing he had already said all there was to say and that the decision was up to the captain now. "Yes, Sir," he muttered, and left the office . . . _

"Wild Bill wound up leavin' El as the lead investigator," Alphonse said, "against his better judgment, I think. At the time, I wished he had turned it over to another team of detectives entirely so we didn't have to deal with the press, but in the end, it didn't matter much. Elliot actually caught DeVane even before _we_ knew we were lookin' for him, an' after what he went through to do it, he deserved all the recognition he got."

"What do you mean, he caught him before you knew you were looking for him, Alphonse?" Cragen asked.

"Well, like I said before, it was just dumb luck . . . "

_1993_

_"If ya ask me . . . "_

_"I didn't," Elliot said stubbornly._

_". . . ya should have told Wild Bill to give this dog to another team."_

_"What the hell for?" Elliot mumbled lest the captain hear his profanity._

_"'Cause when the press gets a hold of this, they're gonna be all over the lead detective like flies on shit." Alphonse dropped his voice to a whisper, but the sharp consonants of the last word still carried into the captain's office and, like guilty schoolboys, they both tried to look busy when their CO looked up._

_After a quiet moment, Alphonse asked sincerely, "You know I'm not a glory hound, right, El?"_

_"Yeah, I realize that, why?"_

_"Because I think ya should at least go in there an' tell him ya changed your mind an' ya want to let me take the lead on this one."_

_"Now, why would I do that?" Elliot asked, clearly irritated by the suggestion._

_"'Cause ya know the captain is right, ya damned fool," Alphonse insisted. "If this blows up, your ass is fired, but if I'm the lead, all they can do is tear me a new one."_

_"It's not gonna blow up, Alphonse," Elliot said calmly. "I'm gonna close this case."_

_"Damn it, kid, use your head . . ."_

_"Stop it," Elliot cut in. "I know he's right. I know you're right. I also know I'm right. I'm gonna put this animal in a cage, and you can either help me do it or stay out of my way. Either way, I won't hold a grudge, but I'm not running from trouble."_

_Alphonse quietly fumed for a few moments, then he asked, "Ok, what's next?"_

_Elliot grinned gratefully to his partner. "Well, I have people out re-canvassing the scenes of the other abductions right now, and I have an appointment with the parents of Elise Neubauer Sunday evening as soon as we start our shift, and then I'm going to meet Cecilia Rojas' mother after that. I'd like you to come along. I figure by the time we finish with Mrs. Rojas, it will be too late to go anywhere else to work the case, so we can come back here and try to figure out what these girls have in common. Why did he pick them? How did he find them? Tuesday I have appointments with the Hennes, the Carmichaels, and the Washingtons, and then I think we need to go back and talk to Suzie Liu and her parents again."_

_Alphonse nodded, knowing he wouldn't have done anything differently. At least the kid was on top of things. "An' what do ya have planned for this weekend?" he asked._

_"Man, since I told Kathy I'll be working nights, she has started planning my days," Elliot complained with a laugh. "I think she forgot that I need to sleep sometime. Tomorrow I'm supposed to weed the flowerbeds and clean the gutters in the morning before it gets too hot, then in the afternoon I have to get an old bed out of her mother's attic and set it up in our guestroom. I don't even know why we need a guest room. In nine years of marriage, we've never had an out of town guest spend the night!"_

_"Tell me about it!" Alphonse commiserated. "Francine wants me to help her rearrange the livin' room tomorrow, because she's 'bored with it'. Why do women insist on changin' things just to make them different?"_

_"Hey, man, if I knew the answer to that . . . "_

_"You probably wouldn't have married one," Alphonse interjected._

_"Yeah, I think you're right, but what would I do without her?"_

_"Starve, an' pay someone to do your laundry?"_

_They shared a laugh as they got their stuff out of their lockers and headed down the stairs. "At least I get to have some fun on Sunday," Elliot said. "After mass, Kathy wants to take the girls to the Children's Museum of Manhattan."_

_"Ya mean you're comin' back into the city for __**fun**__? On the Fourth of July? Are ya outta your mind?"_

_"Hey, I'll be spending the day with my wife and kids," Elliot said, his whole face lighting up. "I don't care where we are."_

_"Oh, man, those two girls have got ya wrapped around their tiny little fingers, don't they?" Alphonse teased. "I'll bet Kathy has to handle all of the discipline because you're such a softie."_

_"I suppose you're right," Elliot said with a delighted grin, "but ask me if I care." _

_"Ya know," Alphonse said thoughtfully as he and Elliot unlocked their cars, "Francine an' I are keepin' Jeanie, for a week while Lois an' my idiot son-in-law go on a 'romantic cruise' in the Caribbean to celebrate their fifth weddin' anniversary. Who the hell looks for romance in the Caribbean durin' hurricane season, I don't know, but I'll bet Jeanie would enjoy the museum. Would it be all right if we tagged along?"_

_Elliot shrugged. "Have Francine call Kathy. Maybe they can work it out."_

_"Yeah, an' who knows," Alphonse suggested "maybe those two can entertain each other an' we won't have to spend our days at home cleanin' gutters and movin' furniture!"_

_"Optimist!" Elliot chuckled, and climbed into his car for the long drive home._

"The next thing we knew, the girls had planned the whole day for us," Alphonse continued. "We were gonna meet at the museum after Elliot and Kathy took Maureen and Kathleen to mass, an' then, when it was time for us to go to work, the girls would take the kids home in one car, an' El an' I would ride to the station together in the other."

"Did you guys spend a lot of off-duty time together?" Olivia asked, wondering how her partner had changed over the years to separate his work and his home life so completely.

"Four or five times a year," Alphonse replied. "His birthday, my birthday, Fourth of July, New Years Eve, Memorial Day, or Labor Day, if they didn't have plans with Kathy's folks. Elliot's mom was alive then, but they didn't do much with her. I always got the feelin' there was a story there that he didn't want to tell, so I never asked him. I know when she had her stroke, he took a couple of days off to sit with her in the hospital. Then she died, an' he was back at work the day after the funeral lookin' like he'd been dragged through hell backwards an' tryin' to act like nothin' had happened. Wild Bill took him out to lunch that day, which I thought was odd, an' when they came back, Elliot looked like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. I always wondered what the captain had said to him, an' I suppose I could have asked about it then, but I figured Elliot would tell me if he ever wanted me to know."

"Family is a complicated thing," Olivia agreed, "and it's always hard to ask someone else about theirs when they never mention it."

There was a brief silence, and wanting to nudge things along, Olivia asked, "So, what happened at the museum? That's where you caught DeVane, isn't it?"

"No, that's where Elliot caught DeVane," Alphonse corrected. "I just sort of sat on my ass an' talked into the telephone.

"It was the middle of July, hottest damned day of the hottest freakin' week of the year. For days, it had gotten into the hundreds an' stayed in the eighties an' nineties at night. Ya couldn't step outside without breakin' a sweat, an' it was so humid the air was thick, one of those days when all ya wanna do is call in sick an' sit home in front of the AC . . .

_1993_

_"If they call us out into this heat tonight, I think I might just shoot somebody," Alphonse muttered as he took out a big white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was a heavyset Italian man, and no sooner had he wiped his face dry than the olive skin was beaded with drops of sweat again._

_"Then at least be sure you kill them," Elliot mumbled back as he moved his work clothes into Alphonse's car. "The ER is gonna be jammed with heat emergencies, second and third degree sunburns, fireworks injuries, and drunks, and I don't want to have to sit there with a wounded perp all night."_

_The Stabler family's station wagon was larger than the Bennetto's Chevy Cavalier convertible, so Kathy, Francine, and the kids would be taking it to the pool and then home when Elliot and Alphonse left for work later that afternoon._

_"What are you two doin' back there?" Francine called. "The kids are ready!"_

_"We're comin', Frannie," Alphonse shouted. "You girls go on ahead, an' get out of the heat." His wife hated being called Frannie, and he knew that was all it would take to get rid of her._

_"Damn, what I wouldn't give for a cold beer, a bowl of chips, an' a football game," Alphonse groaned, stretching his sore muscles as Elliot transferred little Jeanie's car seat from the Cavalier to the station wagon. "When I woke up this mornin' I could hardly move. Francine had me move the sleeper sofa three times before she told me to put it back where it was to begin with."_

_"Oh, quit complaining, and let's go," Elliot said, eager to catch up with his wife and kids. "At least it's air conditioned inside, and if they have a snack bar, I'll buy you a soda." He slammed the car door, walked around the vehicle trying all the handles to be sure it was locked, and started walking away, leaving Alphonse no choice but to grab his camera and follow._

_"Ahhh," Alphonse sighed in relief as he sat down on a bench in the air-conditioned central hall of the museum. The main exhibit was entitled "The Body Human" and the massive space was dominated by a three-story tall, fiberglass model of a human heart that giggling, excited children and their harried parents could explore._

_He heard a familiar, delighted squeal, and, looking up, he saw Jeanie, peeking out of the pulmonary artery, Francine and Kathy Stabler holding her up so she could see. "Gampaw, 'ookit meee," she called. "Come pay!"_

_He stood up and said, "You just have fun, Honey, an' Grandpa will take lots of pictures, ok?"_

_"Kayyyy. Take one now!"_

_He did, and she giggled and waved and then disappeared back inside the heart._

_Just then, he heard childish shrieks of mock terror, and, looking in the direction of the sound, he saw Maureen and Kathleen Stabler come tumbling from the inferior vena cava with Elliot hurtling out right behind them, crawling along on all fours faster than Alphonse would have thought possible for a grown man to do. The two girls pounced on their dad before he could get to his feet, and in defense, he grabbed Kathleen and started tickling her. When Kathleen screamed to her sister for help, Maureen, who apparently knew where her father's ticklish spot was, came to her rescue._

_Alphonse laughed at the sight of his partner allowing himself to be wrestled to the ground by two little girls, and then groaned. He had never felt so old in his life. The shape his back was in, if he had been doing that with Jeanie, he never would have been able to get off the floor. Moving the sleeper sofa yesterday had made him feel every one of his fifty-two years and then some._

_Shaking his head, trying to cast off the gloomy feeling, he snapped a couple of shots of Elliot and the girls tussling. He was a decent amateur photographer, and the thought occurred to him that a few nicely framed photos of Elliot with his kids would make a perfect little Christmas gift for his partner, the devoted family man, come December._

_Elliot abruptly ended the wrestling match by wrapping one arm around each of the girls and lugging them off like a couple of sacks of potatoes to clear the way for other museum visitors to exit the heart. They wandered about the exhibition hall for a while, Elliot reading and explaining some of the small signs to the girls, until he spotted Kathy, Francine, and Jeanie coming out of the heart. With a gesture, he directed the girls toward their mother, and then, keeping an eye on them as he walked, he came over to speak to his partner._

_Still grinning and acting casual, he rolled his eyes and jerked his head in the direction of a man in a baseball cap and blue shirt. "Keep an eye on the Yankees hat, Alphonse," he said quietly. "Something's not right about him. He's been following that girl in the rainbow-striped shirt since we got here, and she doesn't even know he exists. I'm gonna find museum security."_

_"She's probably just havin' a really good time," Alphonse suggested, "an' she's forgotten all about dear old Dad."_

_"Uh-uh. She's with a church group. They all have those red wristbands, and every so often, one of the leaders calls for attention and they all hold up their hands with the bands around them and do a head count, or I guess it's a hand count, but he's not with them. Also, he's passed right in front of her a couple of times, and she has looked straight through him. If she knew him, she would at least acknowledge him." As he walked away, Elliot said, "Just keep your eyes open, and look out for Kathy and the girls, too, ok?"_

_"Yeah, all right," Alphonse called to him, "Just don't get ahead of yourself an' do somethin' embarrassin', ok?"_

_Elliot waved him off and set out in search of the museum security. _

_While he waited for his partner, Alphonse watched the man in the Yankees cap carefully, and to his dismay, he found that Elliot was right. The guy was stalking a girl of about twelve years old. A couple of times, as she stopped to read the signs that described different parts of the exhibit, the creep would get close enough to read over her shoulder, and he would appear to inhale her scent or 'accidentally' brush his fingers against the girl's chestnut brown hair. It was all Alphonse could do to resist the urge to walk over and bust the pervert then and there, but so far, he had done nothing illegal, just creepy._

_Soon Elliot returned. "Well, what do you think?"_

_"You're right, he's stalkin' her. What do you wanna do?"_

_"Security is watching him from the video surveillance room. As soon as they can get an image of his face, they have someone who will take it to the nearest precinct and try to get started on an ID," Elliot said. "And once I identified myself as an off-duty cop, they gave us a couple of their radios so we can keep tabs on him if he gets out of camera range."_

_Elliot discretely handed off one of the small walkie-talkies to Alphonse, and said, "I think we ought to keep an eye on him, and as soon as he does anything remotely questionable, we ask him for ID and then run it for outstanding warrants."_

_"Ok, an' what about the girls?"_

_The two detectives exchanged a mortified look, and decided to do rock-paper-scissors, to decide who told their wives that work had found them on their day off._

"I lost," Alphonse said, "I swear we were both more afraid of our wives than we were of anything that might have happened while we were trying to stop that guy."

"I don't suppose they were too happy, were they?" Don asked.

"Are you kiddin'? Francine would have slapped me if we hadn't been in a public place. Kathy just huffed a little, took the girls by their hands, an' stomped off. I almost felt sorry for Elliot," he said. "Francine could get real mad, but she always got over it. Kathy can hold a grudge."

"So, the guy was DeVane?" Olivia asked, "Was the little girl Muriel Faringo?"

"Yes, an' yes," Alphonse replied. "An' what happened that day, I've never seen nothin' like it before or since."

_1993_

_Kids were playing and screaming and just having a great time, exactly the way they were supposed to at the Children's Museum of Manhattan, and with the exception of two off-duty detectives and their wives, so were most of the parents. Alphonse and Elliot were taking turns watching the stalker and their own families with Elliot spending most of the time tailing the stalker because with his sore back, Alphonse wasn't sure he would be able to keep up with the guy if he decided to do something to the child and run. Every time Elliot caught Kathy's eye, she would narrow her gaze at him and then pointedly turn away. Whenever Francine got a look at Alphonse, she would stick out her tongue. They had suggested that their husbands leave the matter in the hands of the museum security, but Alphonse had explained that the kids who worked for the museum had neither the training nor the experience to do this type of surveillance, and they certainly didn't have the authority to take any action if something criminal did take place._

_The little girl was a curious child, and it wasn't long before she got left behind at an exhibit that had particularly captured her interest. A few minutes later, she rounded a corner near a stairwell, and found herself all alone. The next thing she knew, a hand wrapped around her face, clamped over her mouth, and a voice said, "Don't scream and don't fight. Come with me or, I swear to God, I'll break your neck."_

_All the terrified child could do was comply, and when the man dragged her into the stairwell and down to the street, she went along without a struggle._

_"Stop! Police!" the shout came from above._

_The girl tried to obey, but her abductor smashed a fist into the side of her head and everything went dark._

_"He grabbed her, at the southeast stairwell on the third floor," Elliot spoke into his radio as he scrambled down the stairs. "I am in pursuit on foot. Call 911, and Alphonse, round up the girls, ok?"_

_"Will do," came the reply._

_"He just threw her into an older model green Dodge Caravan. Plates are dirty, can't get the number. Continuing foot pursuit. North on Amsterdam."_

_By this time, Alphonse was on the phone in the security office relaying Elliot's information to the dispatcher, who was then broadcasting it to the area patrol cars._

_"He's at the light on West 84th, waiting to turn right."_

_Already, Elliot was feeling the effects of the heat and humidity. He couldn't seem to take in enough oxygen to keep his muscles working. His limbs were burning and it felt like he was running through pea soup. Just as he caught up to the van, there was a break in traffic and it made a turn. _

_"Right onto West 84th at Amsterdam, now heading east toward Columbus Avenue."_

_There was a pain in his side, and his heart pounded with the effort of running in the heat, but he knew, with traffic what it was in the middle of the day, it could be several minutes until a patrol car caught up to the van. Until then, he had to keep going._

"Elliot chased that van on foot for thirty blocks through midtown, holiday traffic in the hottest part of the day on the hottest damned day of the year," Alphonse said with admiration in his voice, "an' he never once lost sight of it. Hell of it was, after all that runnin', the chase ended in a bar not six blocks from where it started, an' Elliot didn't even get to make the arrest."

"Why not?" Olivia asked.

"'Cause he stopped to get the girl out of the van, an' everything went to hell from there."

_1993_

_"Turning right . . . off West End Drive . . . onto West 81st . . . heading toward . . . Riverside."_

_Kathy sat beside Alphonse listening intently as her husband gasped out directions to relay to the patrol cars that were closing in, oh, so slowly, on his location. Francine had taken the girls to the snack bar for some ice cream. _

_Elliot had been following the van on foot for over twenty minutes. He was just able to keep it in sight because, with all the people coming into the city for the fireworks celebration, the streets were glutted, and everything was running slow. Unfortunately, that meant, even with lights and sirens, the cruisers couldn't make much headway either. The excited atmosphere in the security office at the beginning of the chase was now somber and tense as it became clear to everyone that the man on the radio was about to collapse from exhaustion._

_"Thank God . . . he's pulling over," Elliot's voice gasped out of the radio. "Halfway down the block . . . on the left . . . place called Lenny's . . . getting out . . . left the girl in the van . . . going into the bar . . . I hear the patrol car . . . I'm gonna get the girl."_

_Kathy fiddled with the hem of her shorts, clutching it like she would a rosary, and in the tense silence, she closed her eyes and began to pray. Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Elliot staggered toward the van, only marginally aware of the strange looks he was getting. _

_"Police," he said, taking out his wallet and flashing his ID. "Child in the van . . . has been abducted." It never occurred to him to ask for help or to tell people to move away, but human nature, the sense of altruism in some, and the desire for self-preservation in others, showed itself and some people followed him to assist while others cleared the area on the chance that violence might erupt._

_Elliot's limbs felt like lead weights, he could hear the ocean rushing in his ears, and the world kept shifting colors from red to brown to gray. He kept going only because he knew that a child was still in danger. His hands were clumsy, and he couldn't get his wallet back in his pocket, so he dropped it. He didn't have much cash left and his credit cards were maxed out anyway. He was so intent on getting to that child that nothing else really mattered._

_Approaching the van and looking in the window, he saw her unconscious on the passenger seat, an ugly bruise forming at her temple. He wanted to go into the bar and beat the hell out of the man who had hurt her, but he couldn't leave the child alone and unconscious in a vehicle in this heat. Looking around, he saw a pick up truck, and stumbling over to it, he found a toolbox in the bed. It was locked, but it was small enough for him to lift it by the handle and heavy enough to smash the window of the van. As he dragged it over the tailgate of the truck, it fell toward the ground almost toppling him over. _

_"Hey, Detective, it's all right, we'll get her out."_

_He heard the voices, but ignored them. He was on a mission. Reaching up, he placed the radio on the roof of the van, and then, tightly gripping the handle of the toolbox so he didn't drop it on the girl, he lifted it to shoulder height and heaved. Glass showered down on the child, and it occurred to him that he should have smashed the driver's side window. He lost his balance then, but gentle hands caught him and lowered him to the ground. Things happened around him, moving in slow motion, but he couldn't keep up with them._

_A patrol officer pulled the child out of the van. She was dazed and crying, but seemed ok. He flopped back on the sidewalk, throwing his arms over his head, oblivious to the heat of the pavement burning him through his shirt, and tried to catch his breath, but it seemed he couldn't breathe deeply enough. He saw the man in the Yankees cap come out of the bar in cuffs, escorted by a patrolman. Then people were lifting him up, compelling him to stagger into the bar. When he couldn't move his legs, they dragged him. He wanted to tell them to just leave him alone, but he couldn't get his wind._

_He didn't understand what they were doing to him, and when a woman started pulling his shirt off, he shoved her away. It was like some bizarre dream, and he wasn't sure now whether the girl, her stalker, the afternoon at the museum, any of it, had been real. A cop in a blue uniform got in his face and started jabbering at him as the woman pulled at his shirt again, and that made him angry. He swung, his fist making satisfying contact with the young man's mouth, but he was losing his coordination and they had him outnumbered. Before he knew it, they had stripped him down and forced him onto the cold floor. Terrified, not understanding why they were doing these things to him, all he could do was struggle and hope someone would come rescue him soon._

"Two patrol cars got there just as Elliot collapsed," Alphonse said. "A pair of uni's stayed with him an' Muriel, an' called an ambulance while the others went in and busted DeVane. Of course, some of the bar patrons followed them out to the patrol car 'cause they were curious, an' El was lucky one of them was a nurse. She recognized the symptoms of heat stroke right away, an' by the time Kathy an' I got there, she'd got some people to move him inside. They had him in a back room under the air conditioner, stripped naked, wrapped in a wet tablecloth, his neck, armpits, an' groin packed in ice, with a fan blowin' on him. The doctors at the ER said that is what probably saved his life.

"When we walked in, he was freakin' out. Didn't know where he was, how he'd got there, nothin'. He was fightin' the nurse an' the bartender, who were trying to help him, which I imagine was just makin' things worse 'cause the strugglin' had to be heatin' him up even more. He had completely lost it. He was hyperventilatin', panickin', an' he had already socked one of the officers in the mouth. The other one was tryin' like hell to restrain him an' not havin' a lot of luck.

"Well, I just stood there lookin' stupid, I'd had the same first aid trainin' all cops do, but that was it, an' I didn't really know what to do to help, but Kathy, now, she was magnificent . . .

_1993_

_Kathy could hear her husband cursing and complaining as he struggled to breathe. She could tell he was frightened and not right in the head, but with Alphonse's broad back blocking her view, that was all she knew. Once they were fully into the room, she stepped around the big man and realized immediately what she needed to do._

_Crossing the room, she took her husband's head in her hands and forced him to look her in the eye. Only when she had his full attention, did she begin to speak._

_"It's ok, El, you're safe."_

_"Kathy? The girl?"_

_"It's ok. You saved her. She's fine now, and the officers arrested the man who took her."_

_"What . . . happened? Where . . . am I?"_

_"You're safe, El, but you're sick from the heat and you have to let these people take care of you, ok?"_

_Amazingly, it only took about ten seconds for him to settle down. "Stay here?" he pleaded._

_"I will. Now you just be still and let these people do what they have to and I won't go anywhere."_

_"I need you to roll on your side, Elliot, in case you get sick," the nurse said._

_As if her words had made it happen, Elliot turned over and vomited. He began to panic again, but Kathy put a hand on his arm and said, "It's ok, El. Just relax."_

_He nodded, and on their advice, he did his best to take deep, slow breaths, but he couldn't get enough air, no matter what he did, and even lying down, he felt dizzy. A few minutes later, the paramedics arrived. They started an IV, and put him on oxygen and a heart monitor. He heard some conversation, but none of it made sense to him, then he felt them pushing away the wet fabric at his backside. He felt something cold sliding into him there, and he whimpered and tried to squirm away from it, but Kathy reassured him._

_"Shhhhh. It's ok, El, they have to check your temperature, that's all. Let them do what they have to, and they'll take good care of you."_

_"One-oh-six point four," a voice said quietly. "We have to get him stabilized and to an ER now."_

_He locked his gaze on his wife, and she never took her eyes off him. She continued to soothe him and wipe his face with a cool, wet cloth as the paramedics did their job. When he got sick again, they gave him a bag to puke in, and when he started seizing, they gave him an anticonvulsant and put a breathing tube down his throat. It was a terrifying experience for him, because he still didn't comprehend what had happened, but as long as Kathy was there to tell him it was ok, he would go along with whatever they needed to do._

"It was amazin' to see," Alphonse said thoughtfully. "He trusted her to take care of him when he didn't understand what was goin' on. I mean, I have known people who really love each other, who are made for each other, but these two, they had somethin' you only ever get to share with one person in your entire life _if_ you're lucky. I've never seen anythin' like it since then.

"They kept him in the hospital for almost two weeks, the first five days in ICU. He was on a respirator for a little while, an' about three days in, he got jaundice because the heat stroke had damaged his liver. They were worried about his kidneys, too, an' for a while, they thought there might have been some brain damage. His temperature kept fluctuatin' while he was in ICU, so they monitored it continuously, which really pissed him off because of where they put the probe to do it. I remember him bitchin' about that, an' it kind of embarrassed me, because, I mean, what do you say to a guy when he complains about that, y'know? I just figured he wasn't in his right mind yet, because he never would have mentioned it if he was."

Olivia and Cragen exchanged a glance when they realized exactly what Alphonse was talking about, and it was clear that both of them wished he had omitted that detail from his story. Don couldn't suppress a shudder, and Olivia knew she was blushing. Alphonse blithely continued his tale.

"Poor Kathy was a wreck whenever she was alone or just around Francine an' me, but when she was with Elliot or the girls, she was a champ. Of course, it didn't help that she was in a delicate condition at the time."

"You mean she was pregnant? With the twins?"

"She had just found out," Alphonse said. "Elliot still doesn't know that she told me before she told him, so don't ever mention it, ok?"

_1993_

_"Alphonse, thank you, for everything you did today. I'll be over early tomorrow to get the girls."_

_"Ahh, take your time," he told her. "Jeanie is havin' a blast with them. Take care of yourself an' come check on him first, then stop by for lunch."_

_Kathy sighed and nodded. "Thanks, I'll do that." As they were talking, she moved out into the hall, guiding Alphonse a little way down from Elliot's ICU room. She could still look through the window and see her sleeping husband, with tubes down his throat, in his arm, and up his nose, a catheter carrying waste away, and wires leading from various places to monitor his heart rate, temperature, and oxygen levels. She was grateful that, at least for tonight, the anticonvulsant they had given him would let him sleep, but she knew that for the next few days, he was going to be miserable and would need her there to comfort him._

_"He's in bad shape, Alphonse," she said. "The doctors say he might get worse before he gets better . . . if he gets better."_

_"He's tough, Kathy. He'll pull through."_

_She nodded. "I need some advice."_

_Alphonse felt his heart begin to pound. He knew she was going to ask him a question that he couldn't answer, one he didn't even want to consider. He and Elliot had never discussed that sort of thing, both of them superstitious enough to think that talking about it could bring it into being. "Kathy, I'm sorry, we've never talked about what we wanted if we were . . . beyond help."_

_She shook her head. "It's all right," she said, "he and I have. I know what his wishes are about that. I don't want to have to carry them out, but I will if it comes down to it." _

_Alphonse breathed a sigh of relief, and asked, "Well, then, what did ya need to ask me?"_

_Kathy began to shake, and Alphonse moved her across the hall into the lounge where she could sit. He took a seat across from her, and she began to speak again. "I'm pregnant, Alphonse, and I haven't told him yet. I wanted to make it special . . . romantic. Mom was going to keep the girls for the night, and I was going to surprise him with breakfast in bed. But now . . . I don't want him to worry about it now. Whatever happens with his condition, we'll be ok, but if he . . . if I never get the chance . . . I don't want him to die without ever knowing that he's going to be a dad again, so when do I tell him, Alphonse?"_

_The older man gave it some thought and then said, "First of all, congratulations."_

_Kathy wiped at her tears and smiled. "Thank you."_

_"Now, ya need to think positive, Kathy. Ya have to believe he's gonna be fine."_

_"That's not easy to do when he's lying there so still like that," she said shakily._

_"I know, but just keep tellin' yourself that he's restin', gettin' his strength back, an' gettin' better. Really try to believe it, for his sake."_

_She nodded. "Ok, but telling him. When do I do that?"_

_"Well, as long as he's holdin' his own, I wouldn't say anything until ya get him home, an' then do it just like ya planned."_

_"And what if he gets worse?"_

_Alphonse took a deep breath. He didn't want to think of that any more than she did, but he knew it was possible. _

_"If you're afraid you're gonna lose him, tell him," he advised, "an' then tell him that he doesn't have to worry. You'll be fine, Kathy, 'cause I give ya my word that Francine an' I will take care of all of ya for as long as ya need us."_

_Kathy smiled and sniffled. "Thank you, Alphonse. I know, if it comes to that, he will be grateful." Then her tears started again. "What if it happens when I'm not here?"_

_Alphonse couldn't help but smile, he could answer that question. He was sure he knew exactly what Elliot would say. "If it does happen that way, Kathy, then he'll be in a place where he'll not only know your expectin', but he'll know whether it'll be a boy or a girl, who it'll look like, what color hair an' eyes it'll have, what you'll name it, whether it'll suck its thumb, an' what it'll be when it grows up. He loves ya, Kathy, an' he lives for his kids. He's always gonna be there for all of ya, even from the other side."_

_Kathy swallowed hard, smiled, and nodded. "I know, but I'm still so afraid to lose him."_

_"That's ok, Sweetheart," Alphonse said, pulling the frightened woman into a hug. "I am, too." _

"Everything straightened itself out eventually," Alphonse finished his story. "Once he left the hospital, Elliot spent about three weeks at home, an' he was on restricted duty for another two, maybe three, months after that. I remember he had to check his temperature a few times a day, an' they were really careful about how much exercise he was allowed to get until they were convinced he was recovered. I finished the paperwork on the case an' turned it over to the DA, but I listed Elliot as the lead investigator. He's the one who made the collar.

"Anyway, it was an open an' shut case. DeVane kept trophies," Alphonse said, finally getting back to the real reason for the call. "We found little girls' panties an' barrettes an' stuff in the van, an' every one of our victims picked him out of a lineup, so we never had to work out his pattern. Like I said, it was just plain dumb ass luck that we tripped over him on our day off.

"I wish I could help ya more, cause this is twice that bastard has been responsible for Elliot suffering. If there's anything else I can tell ya, just call me, anytime, an' I'll be glad to help. And tell the kid if he wants to talk, he knows where I am."

"Ok, Alphonse," Don replied, "and thanks."

"Yeah, sure thing. Hey, Olivia?"

"Yeah?"

"Just between you an' me, every cop has a partner he decides to retire from, one person he has worked with that is so good, that clicks so well with him, that he knows it can't ever be better. Elliot was that partner for me. He doesn't know it yet, but the way he talks, I know you are that partner for him. Take good care of my boy, ok?"

"I'll do my best, Alphonse," she told him with a smile, but she couldn't help wondering how often the two men talked and exactly what Elliot had said about her.


	10. Analysis

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter 10  
Analysis**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
9:30 A.M., November 20, 2005_

"I don't know which is worse," Munch said, "the fact that she did it in the first place or the fact that she still gets off on the memories. I feel like I need a shower, and I wasn't even in the room for that part of the interview!"

"Everyone is stupid in their twenties," Fin said, "but getting your ha-has from something twisted you did back then is definitely worse, especially knowing that your boyfriend was using you to rehearse for molesting little children."

"Yeah," Munch agreed, "and that bit about talking to strangers when he took her out and then letting him punish her for being careless really creeps me out. She is just one weird lady."

"Not as weird as DeVane, though," Fin replied.

"Oh, she's at least as weird as him," Munch argued. "She's just not as violent."

"Well, as long as I don't have to listen to her talk about it or arrest her for it, as far as I'm concerned, she can do what she wants . . . This one's a dead number." Fin hung up the phone and asked, "Are you done with your calls?"

"Yeah, you?"

"That was my last one. I guess now we start checking the business licenses to find the ones that may have moved," John said. "We don't have time to go out and canvass the open places before Huang gets here for the profile."

After Olivia left the interview room, Annie O'Keefe Othmer had given Munch a list of about forty restaurants, nightclubs, sex clubs, strip joints, and adult book, toy, and video stores that she had frequented while dating Roger DeVane. Some of them she could only identify by the neighborhood they were in or the stores that were next to them, but it really was more than they had been hoping for. The two detectives had split the list and began by calling to verify the business hours for those places that they could find in the phone directory. Once they had a complete list, they would plan a day of canvassing, going from location to location showing DeVane's picture, and asking if anyone had seen him. They would most likely enlist several junior detectives to help with the task simply because the list was so long.

"Most of them are closed 'til late or shut down on Sundays anyway," Fin commented, "and you know, we still have to schedule interviews with DeVane's previous victims and Muriel Faringo and Sheila Gardener's parents."

"Ok," Munch said, "You wanna take that, and I'll do the business licenses?"

"Sure, and whoever finishes first helps the other."

The detectives had worked well together since they had met, and it was evident in the easy way they divvied up their responsibilities. Munch didn't mind the dull task of searching through public records, which Fin hated, and Fin was willing to speak to the families of people affected by the crimes they investigated, which Munch found emotionally draining.

John plucked a sticky note off his desk blotter and handed it across to Fin. "Sheila Gardener's maiden name was Reese. Her mom is remarried and has moved to Florida. She's flying in this afternoon to make the arrangements. She said we can contact her at her hotel tomorrow morning."

"Well, that's one down, at least for now," Fin said, copying the details from the sticky onto his legal pad where he would record contact information for the other victims and their families as he worked.

Before he settled down to his computer search, Munch went over to the coffee maker and poured himself and Fin each a cup of coffee. Returning to their desks, he got a nod of thanks from his partner who was already on the phone with one of his prospective interviewees.

_The Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
10:04 A.M., November 20, 2005_

"Are you depressed?" Rebecca asked when Elliot refused to answer after she had asked how he was feeling. In her previous work with him, she had found that suggesting possible feelings or mental states could get him talking whenever he was so awash in emotions that he had difficulty finding one thing to latch onto.

Kathy had taken the kids to the second mass, and then she was going to her mother's. They had two hours to talk if they needed it. She had also taken her cell phone, so if Elliot decided he wanted to cut the session short, but didn't want to be alone, he could call her.

He shrugged. "I'm scared, all the time," he said, tracing patterns in the upholstery of the easy chair in which he sat. He almost never made eye contact with Rebecca during their sessions. It was easier to talk if he didn't have to see the sympathy in her eyes. "I wish I could just curl up into a ball and cry."

"Why don't you?"

"Well, for one thing, my ribs hurt like hell," he said jokingly. Then after a minute, when she didn't respond to his remark, he gave her a real answer.

"I don't want to do that in front of my kids," he told her. "And it's not about pride or being macho," he added defensively, as if expecting her to challenge him. "I just don't want to give them one more thing to worry about."

"You think they're worried about you?"

He finally looked at her. "Melinda Warner called me this morning. DeVane is HIV positive. We told the kids after breakfast."

Rebecca's eyebrows shot up in surprise. She thought it was the right thing to do, but she couldn't believe a private, protective man like Elliot would have reached that conclusion for himself so quickly. "Do you think that's a wise decision?" she asked.

He went back to fiddling with the upholstery and shrugged again. "Kathy said it was. That's why I did it."

"You trusted her to make the choice for you?" This time she couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

Elliot nodded. He began to answer, and then he stopped. He swallowed hard, quelling some emotion, and then said, "I'm such a wreck right now, I really don't know what to do, but I trust her to take care of me and to be a good mom to our kids."

Rebecca's first reaction was to ask, 'Even though she left you?' but she knew better than to pick at the scab on an old wound when there was a fresh one that needed her attention. Reviewing her notes, she asked instead, "Your kids aren't here now. Why don't you let yourself cry?"

Elliot closed his eyes and shook his head. "I just don't have the energy."

Rebecca frowned. She certainly hadn't been expecting that response. He was just full of surprises this time. After a moment, she asked, "What medications have you taken today, Elliot?"

That got her an angry look. "I'm not drugging myself to hide from my feelings," he said sullenly.

"I didn't intend to suggest that you are, but some of the meds the doctor might have given you could account for part of the way you are feeling," she explained, "So, what have you taken?"

"Combivir, Compazine, and two Percoset when I woke up, and a Valium when Warner called around nine. I had a panic attack when I found out about the HIV. That's another reason we told the kids."

Rebecca nodded in understanding. Now that she had the whole picture, the vibes she was getting made a lot more sense.

"It's ok to be numb for a little while," she advised him, "and some of the meds you are on will do that to you, but if you're still seeking out that feeling, or I guess I should say lack of feeling, in a couple of weeks, I'll need to know."

Looking up at her again, Elliot asked, "Can we talk about something else?" When Rebecca frowned, he said, "I'm not trying to avoid this conversation, but you're right. I am numb, and I just don't have a hell of a lot of feelings to talk about right now, but there is something that's been on my mind all day."

"Go ahead," Rebecca nodded and gestured with her hands, turning things over to him. Elliot seldom took charge of their conversations, preferring instead to answer the questions she put to him, and she was surprised that he would want to direct their dialog in his current state. Given the events of the past couple of days and the drugs coursing through his system, she found it hard to believe that he felt like taking the initiative.

"I had a nightmare last night," he said, "about the attack, and my oldest, Maureen, had fallen asleep on the couch. I don't know if I woke her or if she just heard me on her way to bed, but she came into my room to be sure I was all right. I guess while I was talking in my sleep, I said enough for her to figure out what had happened to me."

Rebecca inhaled slowly, wondering why he didn't seem upset about it. Falling back on the classic therapist's question, she asked, "How do you feel about that?"

He stared off into space for a moment, and then met her eyes. "I hated that she found out," he said, "because I want my kids' lives to be as happy and carefree as possible, but having her there to talk to last night really helped."

"And how do you feel about leaning on your daughter for support?"

Surprisingly, he smiled. "First it was kind of weird," he said, "because it should be the other way around, you know, her depending on me. But then, it felt almost natural. I don't know just when it happened, but she grew up, and she's tougher than I ever thought she'd be. She can handle it. I wish she didn't have to, but she can."

"And how does that make you feel?" Rebecca wondered how many times she could ask the same question before he quit answering.

He smiled sheepishly. "Proud, I guess. Lucky that my kid turned into such a great . . . person. I don't know how I missed it happening."

Rebecca didn't comment, wondering what would happen if she left him to fill the silence. She didn't have to wait long.

"Years ago, I remember when Maureen suddenly decided it was gross to have her dad kiss her on the mouth. It kind of hurt my feelings, and after she walked away in a huff, I asked Kathy when that had happened, you know what she told me?"

Rebecca silently gestured for him to tell her.

"'While you were at work,' she said. Hell of it was, she was right. My kids are strangers to me now," he said. "They were before Kathy left. They've turned into these people I don't even know anymore. Maureen," he held out his hand, palm up, as if showing off an example, "she's been volunteering at the campus Rape Crisis Center for over a year. She even got her counselor's certificate. I never knew she was doing that!"

His lips were pressed into a tight, straight line, which was a sure sign that some powerful emotion was finally stirring inside him. When he had sat silently for a full minute, Rebecca commented, "You say that as if it almost pisses you off."

He went another minute without speaking, so she asked, "Why do you think she never mentioned it?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice rising, "but it _does_ piss me off. After all the energy I spent keeping my work away from my kids. My wife _left_ me because I wouldn't talk to her about it! And the only reason I wouldn't talk to her about it was because . . . "

He trailed off, biting his bottom lip and rubbing his temple.

"Because what, Elliot?" Rebecca pressed gently.

"I was going to say because I was protecting my kids," he told her quietly, "but that's a lie. Or at least it's only part of the truth," he admitted. "I was mostly protecting myself. I was so screwed up, and I didn't want to talk about my work with her because of what it made me feel."

"And what does your work make you feel, Elliot?"

He thought a minute, then said, "Emotions." After a moment, he explained, "I was afraid if Kathy found out what a wreck I was, she'd leave, so I shut her out and lost her anyway."

"You're saying you couldn't feel anything around Kathy and the kids?"

"Right."

"What about love?" Rebecca asked in a puzzled tone.

"Oh, God, yeah! I never stopped loving them."

"Pride? Were you proud of what your children accomplished?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Now Elliot sounded confused.

"So, you could feel some emotions around your family, right?"

"Yeah," he replied reluctantly, feeling as if he were being led somewhere he didn't want to go.

"Then what does your work make you feel that you couldn't bring home?" she prodded.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't seen her setting him up for this. Maybe he hadn't wanted to. He was tempted to answer with a shrug, but he knew she wouldn't let that go. He heard her take a breath to speak, but he held up a finger to indicate that she should give him a moment to get his thoughts in order. When he finally did respond, it was just one word. "Angry."

She nodded, accepting the answer, but asked, "What else?"

This time he did shrug reflexively.

"Come on, Elliot. You're a pro at hiding your true emotions behind anger. What do you really feel after a tough day at work?"

He glared at her sullenly for a moment, unhappy about being cornered, but as he thought about her question, his gaze shifted to a spot on the carpet. She waited patiently until he could put words to his feelings.

"Frustrated," was the first thought, and then the rest came tumbling out. "Scared, terrified that something might happen to one of my kids. Sad that so many people get hurt in such horrible ways. Disgusted that people can do such depraved things to one another. Sickened. Sometimes I feel dirty from dealing with it all day. Overwhelmed. Helpless. No matter how many of these creeps and perverts we put away, there's always another one. Sometimes I wonder why we bother."

"Why _do_ you bother, Elliot?"

"Because the victims deserve justice," he said immediately, and Rebecca knew there was more behind the automatic response. "Because they deserve to know that the person who hurt them will be punished."

While she waited to see if Elliot would continue talking, Rebecca considered which way to nudge him if he didn't say anything. If she went in one direction, they would get back to the way he shut out his wife and kids. If they took the other path, she suspected they would end up back at his father again. Both were painful subjects for Elliot to discuss, but the fact that discussing his father always brought up a host of other issues from his childhood made her decide to go the other way and complete the circle with Kathy and the kids. Given what her patient had been through in the past couple of days, she would never have chosen to speak about his marriage difficulties, either, but he had moved the discussion in that direction all by himself, so she was content to follow in the same vein.

Realizing that he hadn't spoken in some time, she finally asked, "So you take all those feelings, all that angst, and you bottle it up and carry it home, don't you?"

He shrugged and agreed. "I guess so."

"Why?"

He sighed. "I don't deal with those emotions very well," he admitted.

"Do you deal with them at all?"

He looked at the scars on his knuckles and gave her an embarrassed smirk. "I punch things a lot."

She raised an eyebrow and smiled back lopsidedly. Beating the hell out of an old friend had brought him to her in the first place. "And that's effective?"

"Sometimes the physical pain is easier to deal with," he admitted quietly.

"Easier for you, maybe, but how do you think Kathy feels to know you would rather bust up your hands than talk to her?" She didn't want to pressure him too hard, but she wanted him to take responsibility for the way he treated his loved ones. Being overly soft on him now just because he'd been hurt would make it harder to push him later when he really needed her to ask the tough questions.

He swallowed hard. "I know she doesn't like it," he said. "I know it hurts her."

"And yet you do it anyway."

There was a long silence. Rebecca was content to let it grow oppressive. She knew, sooner or later, Elliot would feel its weight and be compelled to speak. She sat there, watching him, until he offered lamely, "Telling her, showing her what it does to me, would hurt her worse."

"Explain to me how giving her the chance to love and support her husband would hurt her more than forcing her to watch you suffer in silence." She tried to keep her tone light, she didn't want him to feel as if she was pushing him around, but she needed to know why he thought his wife couldn't handle hearing about the things that got him down. When he glared at her, she said gently, "Elliot, I have to know what you're thinking if I'm going to help you."

After another minute or so, he said reluctantly, "I want our life to be like it was when the kids were small, when I left my work at work. I don't like to talk to her about what I do on the job because she shouldn't have to think about it. Nobody should."

"You do."

"It's my job."

"But your wife's not stupid," Rebecca said. "She knows what you do for a living and she can tell when you have had a bad day. When you don't tell her what's going on, how you're feeling, and what you need, whether it's space or comfort or peace and quiet or to do something fun, you force her to try to work it out for herself. She thinks about your job and how it affects you whether you want her to or not, so tell me again, how does opening up to her hurt her worse than shutting her out?"

"I . . . " realizing that what he was about to say didn't answer the question, Elliot shut his mouth and thought for a moment. Finally, he said, "It just gets kinda messy sometimes."

"Did you ever have a garbage bag burst on you?" Rebecca asked.

"Yeah," he replied, confused by the sudden change of subject.

"Gets kinda messy, doesn't it?"

He nodded with a smug expression, seeing through the metaphor already.

"But if you have someone to help you clean it up and take it to the curb, it isn't so bad, is it?"

"It's not the same," he told her. "I'm her husband. I'm supposed to take care of her."

"She's your wife, Elliot," the doctor insisted. "You're a family. You're supposed to take care of each other, but you don't give Kathy the chance to do her part."

"I don't want to bring that kind of filth into our home!" he snapped, getting frustrated with Rebecca's relentless hammering at her point.

"But now it has happened to you, and you have no choice," she pointed out. "And when you needed someone to take care of you, you called on Kathy, didn't you?"

"I went to Olivia first!" he objected.

"Yes, to report the crime," Rebecca acknowledged. "But once the official business was over, you wanted Kathy there. Why?"

There was an enormous silence between them, and again, Rebecca used it to force him to speak. He sighed, squirmed in his chair, opened and closed his mouth several times. Finally, he admitted, "She's never let me down when I needed her. I told Liv I didn't want to see her, but I knew she'd come. I knew she'd take care of me. She always has."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Grateful," he said frankly, "lucky to have her, like a fool for letting her leave, scared that she might not stay until I can manage without her."

"Ready to talk to her about how you really feel?"

He sighed, looked at the floor, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and said, "Ready to try."

Rebecca smiled. "That's a start." She glanced back at her notes and said, "I want to go back to something else you mentioned, if that's ok?"

He nodded for her to proceed, and she asked, "How do you feel about the way Maureen is shutting you out of her life?"

"Excuse me? When did I say that?"

"Well, you said she's been volunteering at the Rape Crisis Center for over a year and never mentioned it to you," Rebecca reminded him. "How do you feel about that?"

Elliot frowned thoughtfully. The way he cocked his head and pursed his lips, Rebecca could tell he was thinking hard. After a long time, he answered.

"It's weird, you know, on the one hand I'm really proud of her. She's doing a good thing by helping people who have been through a rough time." He paused, obviously aware that he was one of those people now. "On the other hand, it kind of feels like a slap in the face. I try so hard not to bring my work home, not to burden my family with the stuff I deal with every day, and she turns around and becomes a rape counselor."

"How dare she?" Rebecca said in jest.

Elliot grinned at her. "You're damned right!" After a brief silence, he said, "I wonder if that's how my dad felt when I joined the department?"

Rebecca felt her heart skip a beat. The abuse hadn't started for Elliot until his dad had been fired from the NYPD for not testifying before the Knapp Commission against some of his fellow officers who had been suspected of corruption. She didn't want to shut him down if he was ready to talk, but she didn't want to push him in that direction if he wasn't. Elliot had so many issues that sometimes it was hard to tell when he was really dealing with something and when he was just using it as a smokescreen to avoid something he didn't want to talk about.

Finally, she just asked him, "Elliot, do you really want to talk about your dad today?"

He chewed on his bottom lip a moment then shook his head. "No."

"Ok, then, we won't. You mentioned earlier that you had a panic attack when you found out about the HIV exposure?" She made it a question, this time seeking confirmation that he remembered that part of the conversation.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"And that you're scared all the time?"

"Yeah . . . "

"Well, it's been less than forty-eight hours, so those feelings are completely normal, but have you been using that self-talk I suggested?"

He stared at her a moment and then shook his head, bowing it in shame. "It makes me feel stupid to be talking to myself."

"You still need to give it a chance, Elliot, it really will help. Now, what are you supposed to say when you feel afraid?"

"It's over. I'm safe now." He repeated it from rote, with no meaning or emotion at all.

"Well, that was convincing!" Rebecca replied sarcastically.

"Well, it's hard to be convincing when you don't really feel it!" Elliot snapped back.

"How do you feel? Scared?" she challenged him.

"Yes!"

"Angry?"

"Yeah."

"Ashamed?"

"Yes."

"Like the bastard who hurt you deserves to die a slow, painful, humiliating death?"

"Hell yes!"

"In other words, like a victim?"

"Yes!"

She paused a moment, letting him realize the admission he had made, and then she told him, "Then say it like you would say it to a victim, to someone you are trying to comfort, to someone you care about."

It took a moment for him to surrender, but then he did as she instructed. "It's over," he said softly, in a soothing voice. "I'm safe now."

After a silent pause, she asked, "It feels different that way, doesn't it?"

Reluctantly, he nodded. "It feels like I mean it."

"Good." He hadn't mentioned feeling guilty this time, and, though she was sure it would come up again later, Rebecca decided not to address that minefield today. She looked at her watch and saw that they only had a few minutes before Kathy and the kids returned. Knowing it was too late to explore another topic, she decided to close the session on a friendly note. "I don't suppose I could get a cup of coffee before I head back to Manhattan?"

"Help yourself," Elliot said, gesturing toward the kitchen since, with a busted hand and needing a crutch on account of his broken foot, he couldn't very well get it for her, "and bring me some, too."

"Ever the gracious host," she teased.

"Hey, I'm an invalid," he replied with a chagrined look on his face. As Rebecca walked toward the kitchen, he called across the room, "Doc?"

"Yeah?"

"I really am proud of Maureen."

She smiled and nodded. "I know you are. You should tell her that."

A few minutes later, she returned with two steaming mugs of coffee. Elliot accepted his with a sheepish look and a quiet 'thank you.' Rebecca nodded and smiled. She hadn't really minded his lack of manners earlier, knowing him well enough to realize that the session had probably drained him to the point where courtesy had been momentarily beyond him, but the fact that he had the presence of mind to recognize the slight and try in some way to correct it was encouraging.

_An Ill Wind_

"Ok, what have we got?" Don Cragen asked his team, which was considerably smaller than usual out of respect for Elliot's privacy and his request that Olivia not work on his case. Once she had thanked George Huang for bringing her lunch and given the team her notes on the activities connecting the first six victims, Olivia had gone to the upstairs portion of their offices to work on reports for a couple of the cases she had taken over from Munch and Fin. That left just Don, his two detectives, and the FBI profiler to work on the search for Roger DeVane.

"Once Olivia warmed her up, Mrs. Othmer gave me a list of places where she and DeVane used to hang out," Munch said from the seat he had pulled over by the whiteboard they used for posting the details of a case when they were all working together on it. He was using the corner of a desk to hold his files should he need to refer to one of them. "Fin and I have managed to locate about thirty of them, and we have a schedule worked out for visiting them tomorrow. We'll need some help if we want to get it all done in one day, though."

"Take as many people as you need," the captain said. One of his own had been hurt, and finding the attacker was his top priority.

"Is the stakeout at the bank still on?" Munch asked.

"Yeah, at least until Wednesday. Did either of you check into where our victims and the families of the first six girls did their banking?"

"I did," Fin spoke up as he came over to lean against the edge of the desk Munch was sitting beside. "They were all over the city. There's no connection to Alice Richardson."

"So much for that, then," the captain commented. "What else have you got?"

"I have interviews scheduled with the original victims and their parents," Fin said, "and with Muriel Faringo's parents. I'll be contacting Sheila Gardener's mother, a Mrs. Evelyn Fontaine, tomorrow morning. With any luck, I'll be able to see her in the afternoon."

"Ok, that's good," Don said, satisfied with the plans his people had made. "Liv and I called Alphonse, Elliot's old partner, and spoke to him about the case. The truth is, they never really solved it."

"Then how did they manage to put DeVane away?" Munch asked in confusion.

"The short version is that they were spending their day off at the Children's Museum of Manhattan with their families, and Elliot noticed something wrong about a guy," Don explained, knowing it was a waste of time to rehash the entire tale. "He followed him, witnessed him snatching a child, and apprehended him. The child was Muriel Faringo, and her abductor was Roger DeVane. Other evidence connected DeVane to the previous crimes, and the vic's all picked him out of a lineup. Elliot never had a chance, or the need, to figure out the pattern."

"Just once, I should be so lucky," Munch commented.

"I'd rather you were smart," the captain commented, deciding not to mention the consequences Elliot had suffered because of his so-called luck.

"Why do we want what we know we can't have?" Fin asked with a naughty look in Munch's direction.

A withering look from Cragen quelled Munch's response and wiped the smirk from Fin's face.

"What about the other girlfriend?" George Huang spoke up for the first time from where he was standing off to the side of the group. "Annie, not Alice. I have to think she was more involved than she indicated."

"She did mention a friend who had been molested," Munch said thoughtfully.

Snapping his fingers as an idea flew into his head, Cragen said, "Call her for another interview. Find out who the friend was, if there were any similarities to DeVane's original assaults, and whether Annie might have mentioned it to him."

"You might also want to see if she had contact with any of the victims, or was involved in any of the same activities as they were," Huang suggested humbly.

"But, Doc, she's a good ten years older than the vic's," Fin pointed out.

"That doesn't mean she couldn't have been a leader or a fan," the doctor replied calmly. "I know it seems like a long shot, but for him to rehearse with her the way he did, I have to think he wanted her to be a part of the assaults just as she was a part of his sexual fantasies. Look at her."

He pointed to the black and white 8" x 10" glossy of Annelle Othmer's engagement picture that Olivia had acquired from the _Times_. Although she was in her mid-twenties at the time the photo was taken, she looked barely half her age. "I have a feeling she is the key to everything, and when we find out how DeVane got started, we'll know how to stop him."

Wheeling on Munch, the captain said, "Ask her about all of that, too." Then he snapped his fingers again and said, "On second thought, have Olivia do it. Annie opened up to her the first time; she might be more willing to speak to her again. Besides, that's all connected to the old files, so Liv can still help without getting involved in Elliot's case."

Munch nodded, and with a relieved sigh, made a note to himself to speak to Olivia about re-interviewing Mrs. Othmer.

"I wonder what her husband would say about their sex life now," he said. "If she still gets off on the memories of what she did with DeVane then you can bet they aren't just kissing, cuddling, and doing things quietly."

The captain nodded. "Good point. Find out."

Munch grimaced in distaste, but nodded.

Jotting something down in his own notebook, Fin said, "I'll ask the families and the earlier victims if they remember being at Mac's Tavern any time before the attacks . . . "

"Remember, it was called Lenny's back then," Munch interrupted.

"Right," Fin made a note of it. "And I'll ask them whether they remember Annie O'Keefe being involved in any of their extracurricular activities."

"Good," Cragen said, "looks like we still have a lot of ground to cover. With any luck, we'll find something useful." Looking to Huang, he asked, "So, where are we on a profile?"

Huang stepped forward now, aware that he was taking center stage as he had done many times before. These sessions were always a group effort, but as the resident expert, he was expected to know anything the others didn't about their guy's profile. He had actually come to enjoy being on the spot in his years working with the Special Victims Unit because they didn't underestimate him the way his colleagues had done in the past. He knew his mild manners, calm demeanor, and short stature belied the stringent FBI training he was required to undergo, but the squad had come to respect him for his insight, compassion, and integrity, even when he disagreed with them. He was secretly proud to realize that none of them would have wanted to work this particular case without him.

"I read everything John faxed me last night," he said, "and I scanned the transcripts of the interview with Mrs. Othmer. I think it is safe to say that Fin is right that DeVane has changed, but the fundamental profile is still the same."

"Wait a minute. How can that be?" Munch interjected, and he started ticking off the differences on his fingers. "Twelve years ago, all the victims walked away," he began. "They were all pre-teen girls, eleven or twelve years old, alone, and DeVane took them from public places, he didn't invade their homes. Not to mention the fact that he didn't leave taunting notes for the police."

"Now, he's killed two adult female vic's," Fin chimed in, "in their own homes, and with Sheila Gardener, he assaulted and murdered her husband. Then he left a note for Elliot. How can you say the profile is the same?"

"Just take a look. Nothing has changed about the attacks on the females." The doctor went over to the whiteboard, took a marker, drew a t-chart, and started writing down all the important facts. He put the similarities in all capital letters and the differences in lowercase.

1993 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PRESENT  
pre-teen girls - - - - - - - - - - - adult women & men  
STALKED VIC'S - - - - - - - - - -STALKED VIC'S  
abduction - - - - - - - - - - - - - home invasion  
BONDAGE - - - - - - - - - - - - - BONDAGE  
RAPE - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - RAPE  
BEATING - - - - - - - - - - - - - -BEATING  
CARELESSNESS- - - - - - - - - -CARELESSNESS  
vic's survived - - - - - - - - - - - vic's murdered  
no note - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -note for Elliot

"What do you see?" Huang asked once the data were listed on the board. He'd learned years ago that if the detectives felt they had discovered for themselves whatever information was in his profile, they would take it much more seriously.

"He's playing out the same scene over and over," Munch said indicating the facts listed in caps, "but he's more violent and more confident now," he added, putting checks beside 'adult women & men', 'home invasion', and 'vic's murdered'.

"Not just more violent and more confident," Fin said. "He's getting more personal. He's not just violating them, he's violating their entire lives, their homes, their partners . . . "

"Exactly," Huang said as Fin trailed off. "But there's more." He waited a moment for someone else to see it.

Cragen walked over to the board and tapped the line about the note. "It's all about Elliot now, at least everything outside of his little B&D scene. He's still pissed off about being caught, and all this new stuff is directed at the cop who busted him."

"Right," Huang confirmed. "Elliot has become a secondary target for DeVane, but the girls, or women, I should say, are still his main fixation."

"Wait, don't you need a second male vic before you can say that?" Fin interrupted. "I mean, how can we be sure he didn't just kill Ralph Gardner because he was there?"

"Ralph Gardener _is_ the second male victim," Huang said. "DeVane came prepared with the cuffs to restrain him, remember? Just like he did to Elliot."

"So Elliot was the first?" Fin asked in disbelief.

Huang nodded. "DeVane could have gone after Muriel Faringo the day he got out of prison, but he terrorized her first, drove her into a panic until she called on the man who had saved her before. When Elliot got there, DeVane had already prepared a scene for him to find. He was waiting for Elliot, he had lured him there."

"Then why kill Gardener and not Elliot?" Cragen asked, his expression saying more clearly than words how much it distressed him to contemplate what might have been.

"Because it's not personal with Gardener," George replied confidently. "He was disposable. The thrill in his fantasy is imagining Elliot, the do-gooder, the meddling cop who put him in jail, reliving the attack with every new victim that rolls in."

"But why is he going after adult victims now?" Munch asked.

"Well, he didn't give you much to go on, but DeVane has already told you why," the psychiatrist said, and when he got three puzzled looks, he flipped through his notes and read aloud. "In his statement, Elliot says DeVane told him 'he had to finish what he started'."

"That explains Muriel Faringo," Fin said, "but what about Sheila and Ralph Gardener?"

"In his letter, DeVane says, 'Sheila knows you can't protect her. I haven't decided yet if the rest will find out,'" Huang read.

"We thought that was referring to his previous victims," Munch said, the disgust with his oversight apparent in his tone as he shuffled through some papers on his desk and pulled out the page of victims' names and their activities Olivia had made, "but he didn't attack Sheila in 1993."

He looked up, horrified at his sudden realization. "'The rest' are the names we don't have yet, the ones he didn't get to before Elliot busted him. He hasn't started going after adult women. Sheila was one of the little girls he was stalking then, she just happens to have grown up while he was away."

"That bastard has had a hit-list all along," Fin said in quiet surprise, "and we have no idea how many names are on it."

Huang nodded. "And despite what he says about being undecided, he already knows he's going after every one of them. He can't help himself."

"But when someone has a thing for little girls, he's always going to have a thing for little girls," Fin argued. "It doesn't go away."

"No, it doesn't," Huang agreed, "and I suspect that sooner or later, if we don't stop him, he will go back to terrorizing children. Maybe between adult attacks, maybe after he finishes with the names on his list, but I don't see him moving on to adults so much as expanding his repertoire to include them."

"Why do you say that?" Munch asked.

"It's in the letter," George replied, reading aloud to them, "'. . . thanks to your meddling, I have found a whole new world of dark needs and desires.' Guys who molest children choose children because they are easy to control. They don't feel they could handle an adult as easily. DeVane got a rush from what he did to Elliot and Muriel Faringo. It made him feel powerful."

"And power is the ultimate aphrodisiac," Munch added. "He'll continue torturing children for the entertainment value, but he'll go after adults, too, because that's what really gets him off now. Being able to have his way with them makes him feel like a god. He'll want that feeling again."

Huang nodded. "It's a possibility," he agreed, "quite likely, I think, but we'll only know for sure if this case plays out for months or years."

"And we sure as hell don't want that," Fin commented.

The group fell quiet, until finally, the captain voiced their next concern. "When people grow up, they move away from home. What if he can't locate one of his intended victims?"

Huang became thoughtful, sorting through the ideas that came to mind until he was sure he had ordered them from most to least likely.

"DeVane was methodical and organized from the beginning," he said. "That hasn't really changed. I suspect he will just go on to the next name on his list."

"And when he finishes with his list?" Cragen pushed.

"He'll probably look for an acceptable substitute," George said. "It might be a relative of the victim, if he can find one, or a child involved in the same activities that she was then. It could be another adult the age that she would be now, maybe one who was in the same Girl Scout troop or whatever, or it could be a child living in her old home or neighborhood."

"In other words, there's no telling who he might go after," Munch said in that tone that implied 'Fat lot of good this has done!'

"She will fit his pattern," Huang stressed, "but given what we know of his pattern, that covers any female in the city from ten to thirteen or from twenty-two to twenty-five who is or was involved in any extracurricular activities similar to the ones on Olivia's list."

"Like I said," Munch reiterated, "we have no way of knowing."

"What about Elliot?" Fin inquired. "Do you think DeVane will go after him again? What about his wife and kids? Liv said they have moved back home to take care of him for a while."

Huang shook his head. "As long as DeVane feels he is making Elliot suffer by attacking others, he will leave him alone. The pleasure is in making him feel responsible for the suffering of innocents, not in hurting him directly."

"Then going after his family would really be hitting him where he lives," Fin pointed out. "And I know his twins are just the right age for DeVane."

"I don't think he'd risk it," Huang argued. "Part of the thrill is knowing his victims never see it coming. DeVane has to believe that Elliot's family is going to be more vigilant than ever now, especially with the continued attacks."

"Does that mean we have to tell Elliot what's happening in order to keep him safe?" Cragen asked. "Because I really don't think he's ready to hear that DeVane is attacking more women and blaming it on him."

"No, I don't think he needs to know yet," George told the relieved captain. "Right now, DeVane is operating in a fantasy world where Elliot is aware of his every move but is impotent to stop him. Later, when he realizes that Elliot isn't playing along, he'll send a dire message, trying to goad him into participating. That's when Elliot will need to be informed, and that's when he and his family will need protection."

"Is that what you know, or is that just an educated guess?" Don pressed.

The FBI profiler looked very seriously at the policeman and said, "I can't tell you anything with absolute certainty, Captain, but Elliot is a friend of mine, and I promise you, if I sincerely thought he or his family were in any danger, I would be demanding that NYPD provide them all with protection."

"All right then," Cragen said wrapping things up, "Is there anything else?"

When no one jumped into the breach, he said, "Munch, Fin, you have your assignments. If you have done everything you can do for the day, go home, and I'll see you here at nine tomorrow."

"Home," John said longingly as he wandered back to his desk to make a few last notes. "There's no place like home."

Trailing behind him, Fin laughed and said, "I've been eating and sleeping here so much I was beginning to think this place _was_ home."

Don watched the two men fondly for a moment, and then shook his head. Turing to Huang, he said, "Doc, since you're convinced that Annie is the key to all of this, do you think you could plan to be in the interview with Olivia? None of us know what you're looking for, so we probably don't know what questions to ask."

Huang nodded. "I was hoping you'd suggest that," he said. "I'll speak to her before I leave and ask her to give me a call when she has it scheduled." He stared at the floor a moment, and then looked up at Cragen again. "I, uh, I know you have a soft spot for Elliot, Captain, sort of a mentor-student relationship, if you will? I imagine this has been very difficult for you."

"Trying to shrink me?" Cragen asked, a smile on his face to indicate that he was not offended.

"No," George said returning the smile, "just being a concerned friend. The strain is showing."

Don nodded and sighed. "I appreciate it," he said, "but all I really need right now is about twelve hours in the sack."

"Ok," the younger man said as he gathered his things, "you know where to find me if you change your mind."

"I do, and thanks," the captain replied. "Oh, and when you finish with Olivia, tell her I said she needs to go home. We'll all do better police work if we start fresh tomorrow."

George nodded. "I'll try to convince her of that, but who's going to convince you?"

Don shook his head as he moved toward his office. "I have some reports to review, and then I'm heading home. I'm out of here within the hour." Including Munch, Fin, and Olivia who was out of sight upstairs in his glance, he added, "If there is anyone who hasn't already left by then, I'm taking them with me."

* * *

**Author's note: **I debated posting this tonight. Like most of you, I have been crazy busy, and I haven't written a word all week. I can't believe it has been over month since I started posting. I am trying to only post a chapter when I have completed a chapter, that way, if I hit a serious writer's block, I have several weeks worth of story before I run out; but Santa told me you have all been very good this year, so I decided to give you a present and post another chapter. _Please return the favor and review. I promise I have been good! 0:-) I even made pizza for dinner last night, and today I prepared our family Christmas dinner!_

Please note the dates. In the story it is only November 20th. Christmas is more than a month away.


	11. Moving Forward

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Eleven  
Moving Forward**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
8:19 A.M., November 21, 2005_

Olivia paused a moment before dialing the phone. This early morning call was probably about to ruin someone's whole week. Sometimes, she hated having to do it, but in this case, she relished her power. Punching in the number, she put a smile on her face and knew it would carry in her voice.

"May I please speak to Mrs. Annelle Othmer?" she inquired pleasantly. "My name is Olivia Benson, and it is regarding a breakfast meeting we had recently."

There was a brief silence, and then the cultured voice of the butler came on the line again. "I'm sorry, but Madame is indisposed at the moment. Perhaps you should try back later."

"It will really only take a few minutes," Olivia insisted, still pleasantly. "I can just drop by this evening, say, around eight o'clock, if that is convenient?"

The silence was longer this time, and then Annie O'Keefe Othmer came on the line. "Miss Benson, dear, how are you? Well, I hope?" she said effusively, and Olivia knew the moment the butler was out of earshot because the woman suddenly hissed at her, "And what the hell do you want? I told you everything I remembered, and I really can't have you disturbing me at home like this. If my husband were to find out . . . "

"Mrs. Othmer, he won't," Olivia promised smoothly, "as long as you continue to cooperate with us." She relished having one of the high and mighty over a barrel for once, and she was trying hard not to rub it in, but not too hard, she had to admit.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," she apologized, hoping it sounded sincere, "but we have some more questions for you. If you could just come in sometime today, it would really help us . . . Around ten? That's fine, and thank you for your cooperation."

_The Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
8:35 A.M., November 21, 2005_

"Elliot?" Kathy called down the hall after seeing the kids off to school. "Hon, if you don't get ready soon, we're going to be late."

She listened for an answer, and, getting none, she went to the guest room to see what was taking so long.

"El?"

Met with silence yet again, she opened the door and peeked in. Her husband was still in his pajamas, unshaven, sitting on the bed staring vacantly at the clothes hanging in the closet.

"El?" she asked softly once more, wondering if he was about to have another panic attack. The orthopedic consultation about his injured hand would be the first time he had been out of the house since she had brought him home from the hospital, and she was sure it would be stressful.

He looked over his shoulder at her with his soulful blue eyes and said, "I don't know what to wear."

Kathy had to take a deep breath to suppress the laugh, the sigh, and the 'Oh, for goodness sake,' that all wanted to come tumbling out of her at once. She took a moment to remind herself that her husband had been raped, as if she could have forgotten, and that such a violation would challenge his macho self-image more than anything else that was ever likely to happen to him. It was remarkable that he could decide on his own what he wanted for breakfast, let alone dress himself. As she contemplated how lost and confused he must have felt, she had to swallow back a sob and close her eyes tight against threatening tears. Then, with another deep breath, Kathy reminded herself that Elliot was counting on her to take care of him for as long as he needed her, even after she had walked out on him once.

She didn't dare screw this up.

Moving into the room, she sat in the chair across from him and said compassionately, "Elliot, you need to let me know when you are having problems."

"I should be able to dress myself," he told her flatly and turned to stare at the closet again.

"Yeah, you should, and in time you will."

"I did it yesterday," he told the clothes.

"You didn't have anywhere to go then," she reminded him. The room was silent for a little while, and when he didn't seem to have any reply, she continued. "I talked to Rebecca and to Maureen about how to help you."

He gave her a sharp look, and she hastened to assure him, "They didn't betray any confidences, but they both said the same thing. Between what . . . was done to you . . . and the medication you're on, you're going to be depressed for a while, you're going to feel paralyzed some times, and simple things are going to be difficult now and then. I'm here to help you, El, but I can't help you if you don't let me know you need it."

"I don't want to be a burden," he said.

"Elliot, look at me," she commanded gently and then waited until he complied.

"You're not a burden, El," she said when his gaze finally met hers. "You're my husband, and I'm here because I _want_ to be the one who helps you through this. Will you let me do that?"

For a moment, she could see the tears swimming in his eyes, and then he blinked them back and sniffled. "I'm trying," he said, "but I'm not very good at asking for help."

She smiled and reached out cautiously. When he didn't pull back, she caressed his cheek. "I know that," she said.

They were both silent for a while, and then she said thoughtfully, "Would it be ok if I asked you how you're doing three or four times a day, just to remind you that that's what I'm here for?"

He considered the offer. There had been times in their marriage when that simple question had been a minefield for them, but if he could keep his answers short and to the point, it would be all right.

"I promise I won't push you to talk about things you don't want to discuss with me," she said. "I just want to help you to remember to ask for help when you need it."

He wondered how she knew exactly what to say, but he just answered, "Ok."

"Can I give you some advice now?"

He nodded.

"You don't have time to shower or shave," she told him. "Just wash up quick and let me pick out some clothes for you."

"I should shave," he said listlessly.

Kathy shook her head. "A day's growth of beard isn't my favorite look, but it isn't bad on you. It will be ok."

He nodded once more, and slowly stood up. She rose from her seat, and gave him a peck on the cheek. While they were close, she whispered to him, "It will get better, I promise."

He nodded yet again and headed off to the bathroom. Almost as an afterthought, he paused and looked over his shoulder again.

"Kathy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Baby."

_An Ill Wind_

"Benson, I thought you and the doc were supposed to be re-interviewing Mrs. Othmer about now," the captain said as he walked by Olivia's desk.

"We're just letting her stew a while," Olivia replied getting up from her chair.

"And why's that?" Don asked as he continued walking.

"It's Huang's idea," Liv explained as she stood and walked with her captain in the direction of the interview rooms. "She's trying to keep her relationship with DeVane a secret from her husband, so the longer we keep her here, the more worried she's gonna get that he'll find out. When she's about to lose it, we'll go in, I play the bad cop this time, and Huang will give her someone to confide in."

"Do you really think this scheme is gonna work again?" Cragen asked the psychiatrist doubtfully as he and Olivia entered the observation room.

George nodded, never looking away from his subject. "If we give her enough time to build her anxiety, it will. She'll talk to anybody who seems sympathetic just to relieve the pressure."

"Ok, as long as you don't stall too long and she walks out."

Olivia shook her head. "She won't," she said. "The last thing she wants is to have us coming back to her house."

Cragen looked to the psychiatrist, and he concurred with a nod.

"All right, then, let's see what happens," Don said and turned to look into the interview room.

As they had been talking, Annie had been pacing. She would stop periodically to read the posters on the wall, fiddle with her jewelry, stare out the window, or look at her reflection in the one-way glass to adjust her clothing. Her motions had been growing steadily more agitated for the twenty minutes George had been sitting in the observation area watching her, and suddenly, she strode across the room and pounded on the mirrored glass with the flat of her hand.

"For God's sake! What is taking you people so long?" she shrieked.

Smiling at the captain and Olivia, George spoke in a placid tone that belied the excitement in his eyes. "She's ready now."

Cragen stood aside to let them pass out of the observation room and tried not to shake his head in wonder. On a professional level, he thought very highly of George Huang and valued his opinions as a profiler. On a personal level, however, he found it a little disturbing how much pleasure the man seemed to derive from spending time with psychos, sociopaths, and violent perverted weirdoes of every stripe.

Shrugging, he decided there was something to be said for enjoying one's work and turned his attention toward the interview which was just beginning.

_St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
10:38 A.M., November 21, 2005_

"Doctor Wells will be with you shortly," the receptionist, whose name badge read Tibet, said as she led Elliot and Kathy into a consultation room a few minutes after their scheduled appointment. "It's funny, she usually doesn't run late, but today she did, and it has worked out almost perfectly."

Kathy and Elliot just nodded and smiled at the young woman as they took their seats. Once Tibet was out of the room, Kathy placed her hand over her husband's good one, which was resting on the knee of his favorite, well worn, blue jeans. He immediately turned his hand to hold onto hers and gripped it tight. She looked at him and smiled asking, "How are you doing?"

"Ok," he said automatically, but when she continued looking at him, he was truthful. "I wish we could have put this off a while. The x-rays weren't fun, and the way I look right now, I just don't feel good about being out in public."

She had known by his expression that having to remove the splint and place his injured hand flat on the x-ray table had been quite painful, and she could understand him being self-conscious about two black eyes, a swollen nose, and a split lip, but she also knew that he was probably particularly sensitive because of what else had been done to him.

Wanting to reassure him, she said, "Your hand will probably hurt a lot less after the surgery, once everything is back in its proper place, and I know it feels like a big deal to you, but as far as your appearance goes, people will just think you've been in an accident, El."

He nodded and said, "I know, but it doesn't help."

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and they lapsed into silence again, each of them drawing comfort from the presence of the other. A few moments later, the doorknob turned, and they looked up . . . and up . . . and _up_ at a thin woman in a white lab coat and a simple, emerald green dress, who, quite literally, ducked into the room.

Her hair, which she wore in a heavy, tidy braid draped over one shoulder, was the orangey-red of a new penny with generous darker lowlights to soften the color, and she had a surprisingly dark tan with freckles scattering every surface of exposed skin. The lab coat must have been specially tailored for her, because the sleeves were long enough, and the dress, which probably would have come almost to mid-calf on most women, fell just above the knees of her slender, shapely legs. She peered down at them over a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses and a wide, radiant grin graced her slightly horsey face as mischief lit her green eyes.

"I'm six feet, four and a half inches tall," she told them in a twangy accent Elliot couldn't quite place. "Yes, my whole family is tall, and no, I didn't play basketball in school. I ran cross country. Coach wanted me to run sprints and hurdles," she continued. "Unfortunately, I was athletic, but not particularly graceful, and 'til these long arms and legs got movin' that fast, they always got tangled up, and I'd fall." She held out one arm and pointed toward them with the toe of one foot as if there was some doubt about whose long limbs she meant.

Suddenly aware that he had been gaping, Elliot closed his mouth and blushed slightly. Kathy began to apologize for the both of them.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, that was rude of us, wasn't it? It's just, ummm . . . "

"Don't worry about it," the doctor told her with a chuckle as she used the folder she was carrying to bat the apology away like a mosquito. "My birth records say I was twenty-four and a half inches long, and after fifty-one years on this earth standin' head and shoulders above my peers, I'm kinda used to takin' people by surprise."

She crossed the room in two strides and extended her hand to Elliot. "I'm Doctor Theodora Wells," she said, "but most folks call me Teddy. You must be Elliot."

Elliot nodded, still a little dumbstruck but warming to the woman quickly. "Pleased to meet you," he said. "This is my wife, Kathy."

Kathy shook the doctor's hand, and when the introductions were finished, Teddy took a seat across from them, but in front of the desk, not behind it. Opening the folder, she read her notes briefly and then said, "Ok, Elliot, I've seen your x-rays, both the ones from Friday night and today's, and it looks like this will be an easy fix; but before I can be sure, I need some more data. Unfortunately, gettin' that information is gonna be rather uncomfortable for you.

"Now, it's not somethin' I can just skip over," she continued apologetically, "but if I tell you what I need to do, maybe you and I can figure out together the least painful way to get it done, ok?"

"Ok," Elliot agreed, Teddy's confidence and compassion making him readily trust her.

"All right, then, if I say anythin' you don't understand, you stop me, ok?"

When Elliot nodded, she continued. "First I want you to know why I need to do what we're gonna do," she said as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.

"I am an orthopedic surgeon," she said didactically. "I deal with the musculoskeletal system, that is, joints and bones, as well as muscles, tendons, and ligaments, the entire mechanical apparatus of the human body. It's what I'm trained for, it's what I'm good at, and if that's all that is involved in your case, I can have you patched up in no time."

"Ok, but if there are other problems, what would they be, and what would they mean as far as fixing my hand?" Elliot asked. Kathy, for her part, sat quietly beside her husband, marveling at the way Teddy had put him at ease. No one would have guessed that just an hour ago, choosing clean clothes had been too stressful for him.

"Well, my two biggest concerns are vascular and neural injury," Teddy said. "Doctor Dombrowski's notes didn't indicate anythin' of that nature, but in forty-eight hours, bone shards can shift and do all kinds of harm to the surroundin' nerves if they're not properly stabilized. You haven't been fiddling with that splint, have you?"

"Only for the x-rays," Elliot said earnestly.

Teddy grimaced. "I imagine that was unpleasant."

Elliot nodded. "It hurt more than I expected it to."

"I wish I could tell you this will be better," she said sympathetically, and then continued her explanation of other possible complications. "In addition to the potential neural injuries, a slightly damaged blood vessel might not show any symptoms right away. If there are other injuries, dependin' on their severity, I may have to call in a vascular surgeon, maybe even a neurosurgeon to help me. As far as what that all means to your eventual recovery, well, the possibilities range so far and wide that I hesitate to guess before examinin' you."

Elliot nodded. "So you're saying I could have anything from a complete recovery to a permanent disability, is that right?"

Teddy narrowed her eyes at him, not liking the way he was pushing her to speak in terms she had deliberately avoided. She could tell already that her patient was a tough, headstrong man, and she decided to give him what he wanted, as briefly as possible, so she could move on.

"Yeah, but we're all gonna think positive."

She deliberately left off the word 'right?' or 'ok?' By not asking for his confirmation or agreement, she made it a command and showed him that she was as stubborn and determined as he was and that he better get with the program because she wasn't the doom and gloom type.

Elliot smiled slightly, knowing exactly what she was doing and appreciating her effort on his behalf, even though she was manipulating him. "What exactly do you need to do, then?"

"The splint needs to come off, and then I will visually examine your hand. I'll be lookin' for signs of infection or a hematoma." Teddy frowned. "Do you know what a hematoma is?"

"Yeah. Then what'll you do?"

When Teddy looked doubtful, he recited from what Warner had taught him years ago. "It's a blood clot that forms in a tissue, organ, or body cavity after a blood vessel is broken."

When she looked suitably impressed, he explained, "I've been a detective with the NYPD for twelve years now. I deal with a lot of medical evidence."

"I see," Teddy smiled. "Well, then, I guess we can finish this conversation in doctor-talk, huh?"

"I didn't say I knew that much," Elliot objected, "but I will stop you if I don't understand something."

Nodding, Teddy continued with her explanation. "I'll need to make sure that your fingers are all warm and gettin' the proper blood flow, and I'll do that by pressin' my thumbnail against each of your fingernails and seein' how fast the nail beds go from white to pink. The quicker it happens, the better.

"If that all checks out, I'll ask you to close your eyes so I can use this pinwheel," she pulled a white plastic device consisting of a small handle and a spiky, gear-like wheel out of her pocket. It was still sealed in cellophane for sanitation.

"I'll just roll it up and down each finger a few times, and across your palm and the back of your hand to test the feelin' there. If all of that is ok, then I'll need you to wiggle your fingers."

She heard her patient's slight groan, and said sympathetically, "Yeah, I know, that's the worst part, but once it's over, you'll be done."

It took a little more than fifteen minutes for Elliot to remove the splint and for Teddy to do her tests. Twice, she had to stop for a minute because the pain had been too much for her patientto bear. Everything checked out, and all that was left was for Elliot to wiggle his fingers.

"Ok, you don't have to do this," Teddy said, fluttering her fingers quickly in the air. "I just need to know that the motor nerves, the ones that tell the muscles to move, are functionin' properly. All you have to do is this." She curved each finger toward her palm only slightly.

Elliot nodded, and easily moved his four fingers, then very slowly, and with a grunt of pain, he moved his thumb just the tiniest bit.

"That does it," Teddy told him. "Now, I'm just gonna immobilize it again," she said as she began placing the pneumatic splint on his hand, "and then we'll talk about when to schedule this surgery."

_An Ill Wind_

"It's about time!" Annelle Othmer snapped when the door banged open and Miss Benson walked in followed by a small Asian man. "You can't just drag people in here on a whim and then leave them sitting all day!"

"Yeah, well, I got busy," Olivia replied offhandedly. "Sit down, Mrs. Othmer."

"Look, Miss Benson, I don't know who you think you are, but I expect to be treated with more respect, especially from a secretary," Annie began, but when she paused for breath, Olivia cut her off.

"That's _Detective_ Benson," she said.

"But yesterday . . . "

"Yesterday, we were playing you, Annie," Olivia said tauntingly as she strolled across the room with her hands on her hips. "I am a senior detective. In fact, I've been with this squad a little _longer_ than Detective Munch, which means _I_ was the one in charge yesterday."

Actually, most of the time when any two of the senior detectives worked together, it was a pretty equal partnership and seniority was only a formality, but for the benefit of suspects and reluctant witnesses, each of them was more than happy to play a subordinate role from time to time. It was really just another version of good cop – bad cop as far as they were concerned.

"_He_ was acting on _my_ orders, not the other way around," Olivia clarified. "Who do you think arranged to have him pulled from the room so you could get comfortable talking to me? Who do you think is in charge of this investigation?"

Olivia took another two steps, and when she was right in the other woman's face she yelled, "Now sit _down_!"

Annie jumped, startled by the venom in the other woman's voice. Stumbling back, she found the chair and took a seat.

Olivia stalked the room like an agitated cat, pacing with quick strides around the perimeter of small space. "This is Special Agent George Huang from the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit. He has some questions for you. He wants to find out what makes a freak like Roger DeVane tick, and he thinks you might be the local expert on freaks like DeVane. Personally, I would have preferred it if you could have given us a real lead, but if we are lucky, maybe the BS Unit," she emphasized the _BS_ disdainfully, "can help us find him before he attacks another woman."

Huang played his role well, keeping quiet and demure until his office was attacked. "Behavioral profiling is a valuable investigative tool, Detective," he said testily. "It can predict with surprising accuracy all kinds of things about a subject from what kind of car he drives to why he does what he does."

"But we still need _evidence_ to _convict_ him," Olivia shot back. "And I don't need to know his motivation in order to find him. I just need a damned lead."

George sat sulking in the chair across from Annie as Olivia stopped her pacing and leaned against the table beside the woman, her back to the profiler. Folding her arms, she peered down at her subject and said, "Annie, I know you probably think I'm a real bitch for the way I played you, and you know what? I don't care. I'm just trying to get that raping, murdering bastard off the streets."

She lowered her voice to a confidential tone and said, "I do want you to remember this, though. I'm perfectly happy to help you keep your dirty little secrets, as long as you have done nothing illegal. I also have your number on my speed-dial, and until Roger DeVane is in jail, any time I call you, I expect to hear back within the hour. If I don't I am going to show up at your house with a uniformed officer and a patrol car to bring you in for questioning, and I won't leave it for you to explain to your husband. Got it?"

Annie sat quietly for a moment until she realized the detective actually expected a reply. With a nod, she said meekly, "I understand."

Turning and glaring at George, Olivia said, "Come by and talk to me if you get anything useful, like his address."

_An Ill Wind_

Teddy moved behind the desk and glanced through Elliot's folder for a moment. Looking at him over her glasses, she said, "I see that you are on Combivir. Are you positive for HIV?"

"No," Elliot shook his head and gestured toward his battered face. "The guy who did this to me is, and I asked for post exposure prophylaxis."

"I see. So you just started on it, ummm . . ." she looked back into the folder, "Friday night, is that right?"

"Yes. I take it at seven in the morning and seven in the evening."

She turned, glanced at the calendar on the wall beside her, and when she spoke again, she was obviously thinking aloud more than speaking with Elliot and Kathy. "And the stitches will be in for ten days, so that takes us to the . . . first of December . . . which will have you well into the PEP protocol. I don't anticipate any problems with wound infection, and I don't think Combivir reacts with any of the antibiotics I would prescribe to prevent one from developing, but I will check with the hospital pharmacist today, just to be sure."

Peering over her reading glasses again, Teddy asked, "You said you take it at seven and seven, correct?" When Elliot nodded, she continued her planning. "I hate to mess with that dosing schedule, how do you feel about a five a.m. surgery?"

Elliot looked at her doubtfully and replied, "I think, since you are the one who is going to be doing the cutting, the question is, how do _you_ feel about it?"

Teddy chuckled slightly and replied, "That's an astute observation. Would it comfort you to know that most days I have run three miles, had breakfast, fed the cats, and read the paper by that time?"

Nodding, Elliot said, "Yeah, it impresses me, too."

Teddy grinned, "It shouldn't. Most nights I'm in bed by nine. I have always been an early riser, comes from havin' eight little brothers and sisters to get off to school."

"Wow. Big family," Elliot commented, wondering what Teddy would say next. His detective's instincts told him she was dropping clues and he felt compelled to get all the facts.

Teddy laughed. "Yeah, but would you believe my daddy is still naggin' _me_ about grandchildren? At my age? Hah! I just tell him I have had my fill of raisin' babies and he needs to pester one of my younger siblin's if he wants more ankle-biters runnin' around the place at Christmastime. So far, one of my brothers has had one child, and another has two."

"What about your mother? Does she want to be a grandma again?" Kathy asked.

Teddy dropped her smile. "My mama died when I was a kid."

"I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

Teddy shrugged. "It's not your fault. It's a perfectly natural question to ask considerin' the information I gave you. So . . . the surgery? Most of my surgical days start early, and I have a regular team I work with; so the whole lot of us are used to gettin' up and at 'em before the rest of the world starts hittin' the snooze button. It's easier to get an OR at odd hours like that."

"Five o'clock would be fine," Elliot said.

Picking up the phone, the doctor dialed an internal number. "Mary, it's Teddy Wells . . . All right, thanks, and you? . . . Good, good. Listen, what are the chances of gettin' an OR at five in the mornin' one day this week? . . . Surgical reduction of a fractured metacarpal . . . Tomorrow? Really? Let me ask my patient . . . "

Covering the receiver and speaking to Elliot, she said, "If we're really gonna do this at five, I'd like to admit you the night before. How do you feel about checkin' in by, say, six this evenin'?"

Elliot looked to Kathy, who shrugged and told him, "The sooner it's done, the better, I would imagine."

He looked to Teddy uncertainly, and when he hesitated, she said, "That's true, but you've got some leeway before it becomes urgent. Today, tomorrow, or Wednesday will be fine, or if the bones remain stable, we might be able to wait until after Thanksgivin'. It's no hurry right now."

Somehow, knowing he could postpone the surgery made him want to get it done as soon as possible. It was as if feeling no pressure to take action immediately freed him to act in his own best interest.

With a small sigh, because big ones were painful to his battered ribs, he said, "Tomorrow's fine. I can be here tonight."

Smiling, Teddy spoke into the phone again. "Tomorrow works, Mary . . . Thanks, you're a peach . . . You, too . . . Bye."

Resting the receiver in the cradle, she glanced at Elliot's file again and then smiled at him and Kathy. "Ok, this is what you need to do for the rest of the day: Go home, relax, enjoy some time with your family, whatever you were gonna do today anyway. If you need your Percodan for pain or any of your other meds, take them. Have a nice, early dinner, but don't over eat and finish it by five o'clock. Then show up here with an overnight bag around six."

"That's it?" Elliot asked, surprised.

"Yep, but make the nurses give you your Combivir on schedule at seven," Teddy advised. "I'll note it on your chart, but sometimes they get busy." Looking at Kathy, she said, "You might want to stick around until then to make sure that happens."

"Oh, I will," Kathy assured her.

"Very good, then," Teddy said, coming around the desk and extending her hand to shake. "I will see you both this evenin', and, with any luck, by this time tomorrow, Elliot, with your hand properly set, you will be in a lot less pain."

After the goodbyes were said, Elliot and Kathy stood looking at each other in surprise for a moment. Then Kathy smiled and said, "Well, she certainly doesn't waste any time, does she?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no she doesn't."

"And you seem to like her all right," Kathy continued.

"Well, she seems to know her business," Elliot replied distractedly as he tried to worm his way into his jacket.

"El, are you all right?" Kathy asked as she helped him drape the coat around his left shoulder.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" he snapped.

She moved to stand before him and gave him a look that said, 'I'm not going to let you get away with that.' He narrowed his eyes at her defiantly, and she duplicated his expression adding the powerful gesture of resting her hands on her hips. After another stubborn moment, he shrugged and said, "Sorry. I guess I didn't expect her to want to operate so soon."

She folded her arms and stood in place. When he didn't say anything more, she told him, "It's all right to be nervous."

After another hesitation, he nodded, and satisfied for now that he was acknowledging his fears, even if he wasn't exactly dealing with them, she took his hand and they left the hospital together.

_XxxTreme Emporium  
42nd St. and 11th Ave.  
11:02 A.M., November 21, 2005_

"Uhhhh, I don't know if I am allowed to tell you anything," the clerk at the XxxTreme Emporium said to Munch and Fin when they showed him the mug shot of Roger DeVane. "C-could you come back when my Mis-, I mean my m-manager is available?"

He was a youngish man, probably in his early thirties. He wore a shiny red spandex t-shirt so tight the dolphin figures dangling from his nipple rings showed through the fabric, and his skin tight, black leather biker shorts closed with a padlock at the waist and above each knee. From where he stood, Munch could see that he stood barefoot on a plush red patch of carpet behind the counter.

"When will he be back?" Munch asked.

"_She's_ in consultation with a client at the moment," the young man said. "It might be, oh, another hour."

With sudden grace, Fin reached out and snagged the chrome chain that ran from an eyebolt in the counter top to the studded leather dog collar around the clerk's neck. Giving a yank, he pulled him forward until he was leaning over the counter.

"Listen to me, you sick little fuck," he snapped in the young man's face. "I don't care what, _or_ _who_, she's doin', you get her out here now, or we're gonna post a uniformed officer on the sidewalk to question every one of your perverted patrons who has the balls to come in here past a cop at the door. Do you understand me?"

"I-I need to get to the phone," the flabbergasted clerk stammered, and he stumbled back as Fin let him go. He dialed an internal number, and listened for several moments as it rang. Munch and Fin listened intently, too, for a phone to ring somewhere in the shop, but sharing a look, they each knew the other had heard nothing.

"She isn't answering," the man informed them.

"Then try again," Fin ordered.

The clerk glanced uncertainly in Munch's direction, but seeing that he would get no help from the tall man in the dark trench coat, suit, and glasses, he dialed again.

"Y-Yes, Mistress, I know, and I'm sorry," he spoke into the phone while shooting venomous looks at Fin, "but it's the police, and they're being quite insistent . . . Yes, Mistress."

Hanging up the phone, he said, "Mistress will be here momentarily." Stepping back from the counter, he bowed his head and folded his hands in front of him at his waist, adopting a clearly submissive posture.

Fin and Munch shared a smirk and waited quietly for Mistress to arrive. A few seconds later, a tall, stunning, older woman made a powerful impression as she came striding out in impossibly high patent leather heels, a tight, black patent leather corset and matching thong panties, and a garter belt holding up black fishnet stockings. Jet-black hair shimmered as it swayed and swirled around her shoulders, some of it sticking damply to her face as she perspired. Tying a red silk kimono around herself, she ignored the detectives and moved toward her the clerk.

"Jeremy? Are you all right, Darling?"

"Yes, Mistress," he said, and speaking quickly, he apologized and explained. "I'm very sorry, Mistress. I didn't know if I should talk to them, and they threatened to put an officer outside the door if I didn't call for you."

"It's all right, Darling," she said soothingly as she kissed him softly on the temple and caressed him in places most people wouldn't ordinarily touch outside of the bedroom. "You did the right thing."

Turning to Munch and Fin as she kept one hand protectively on her subordinate's person, she said, "Gentlemen, this is a legitimate business, and all of my records are in order. Why have you chosen to harass me today?"

"We ain't harassin' nobody," Fin told her defensively. "We just need to know if either of you have seen this man." He slapped the mug shot of DeVane down on the counter and waited.

The woman studied the photograph for a moment, tracing the contour of DeVane's lips with red-lacquered nail. Shaking her head, she said, "I don't recognize him. Jeremy?"

"Yes, Mistress, I have seen him."

Munch and Fin shared a disgusted look. Why did it have to be so difficult to get such a simple statement?

"What do you want with him?" Mistress asked.

"He's wanted for four rapes and three murders all committed in the past three days," Fin told her.

"And all less than a week after being released on parole from Riker's Island," Munch added.

"What was he in for?" she asked curiously.

"He molested six little girls, and was caught in the act of abducting the seventh," Munch explained.

"Vermin!" Mistress spat and her nostrils flared delicately. "Jeremy, tell them everything you know."

Jeremy stepped forward, but did not move from his submissive pose. Eyes downcast and hands still folded, he said quietly, "He came in Friday night. I'm not sure what time, but it was dark. I thought he might have been high, because his eyes looked strange. He seemed very excited, and he was sweating. He wanted five sets of the chrome-plated handcuffs. When I asked if he was having a party, he gave me a strange look, and said, 'Yeah, you could say that, a farewell party.'"

"He was probably coming down from an adrenaline rush after the first attack," Fin speculated.

"Yeah, and decided he wanted to recreate it, so he needed to buy some equipment," Munch added.

Snapping her fingers, Mistress ordered, "Jeremy, find the receipt." Looking at Munch and Fin, she said, "Even with our clientele, five pairs of cuffs is an unusual purchase. Our receipts are time coded, so we can tell you exactly what time he was here, if that will be any help. If you have an extra copy of his picture, I can fax it to a few of my . . . friends. If he's on the party circuit, they'll know him."

"And what good will that do us?" Fin asked sarcastically.

Folding her arms around her so that they boosted her ample bosom nearly out of the corset, Mistress said, "Believe it or not, Detective, the vast majority of people in the bondage scene, just like in the rest of the population, despise rapists and child molesters. Perhaps we hate them even more than you do because they give us a bad reputation."

"Sorry, but I find it hard to believe that you care about your _reputation_," Fin replied, using a mocking tone that showed his opinion of Mistress and the people who shared her interests.

"Oh, no apology is necessary, Detective," she responded tauntingly. "I realize you speak not out of malice, but out of ignorance."

She stalked the area behind the display case like a cat, caressing her servant's bottom as she passed him, and came out from behind the counter to speak to the two men. "My friends and I are law-abiding citizens, gentlemen. I haven't even had so much as a parking ticket in the past ten years."

"And what would we find if we went into your private consultation room and interviewed your client?" Munch asked.

"A very excited federal judge with . . . rosy pink cheeks," she told him playfully. "I was demonstrating some new products. No money will change hands unless he chooses to buy something. As I told you before, I am a legitimate businesswoman, not a common whore."

Fin rolled his eyes at the double entendre. Munch smirked as he challenged her, "You want to present yourself as a fine, upstanding model of free enterprise, yet you keep a sex slave. Explain that."

The woman laughed incredulously. "Jeremy is hardly a slave, Detective. I found him at the Port Authority Terminal ten years ago, prostituting himself for drug money. I helped him get clean, sent him to business school. I gave him a life, and in return, he pledged it to me."

"I don't suppose his debt to you had anything to do with that, did it now?" Munch asked, "I mean, between the cost of rehab and college tuition, he must owe you quite a bundle."

"Jeremy, Darling, tell the good detective about the gift I gave you the day before you gave yourself to me, please?"

Jeremy paused in the act of looking up DeVane's receipt and looked over his shoulder with a smile of adoration. "A million dollar trust fund, Mistress, that pays out upon your death or when I leave your service, and the deed to the cottage on Shelter Island."

He blithely went back to his task, and Mistress turned to grin smugly at Munch. "So you see, Detective, the only thing binding Jeremy to me is his will. I happened to make a killing in the stock market, and he benefited from it as much as I did. I still provide him with food, shelter, meaningful work, security for his future, and all of his medical care. In every way that matters, he is freer now than he was when he was on his own."

Quiet as a ghost, Jeremy came to a spot along the counter near them. When his Mistress acknowledged him with a look, he gave her the receipt. Looking at it before she gave it to the police, she frowned and said, "Jeremy, Darling, you've made a mistake. This is only for three pairs of cuffs."

"No, Mistress, there is no mistake, we had only the three pairs in stock."

Fin impatiently snatched the paper out of the woman's hand. "Ten fourteen p.m. Friday. That was about half an hour after the first attack."

"He wanted five pairs," Munch thought aloud and shared a look with his partner that said, 'and so far he's only used one of them.'

"Jeremy?" Mistress asked. "Do you need something?"

The servant had crept silently around the counter to stand just behind his mistress. Somehow, she had known he was there without him making a sound.

"I was just wondering, Mistress, what should I do when he comes back? He said he'd be back when he needed more."

Excitedly the two detectives asked almost in unison, "Did he leave any contact information?"

"No, uh, sirs," Jeremy answered, doing his best to reply to both. "He just said he'd be back in a week or so for the rest."

Munch sighed, and Fin said, "I think it's time we talked to the captain."

* * *

**Author's note: **Here I am, begging for reviews again. This story is on twenty-one alerts lists and nine favorites lists, but I only got two reviews for the last chapter. I can understand you all being busy at the holidays, heaven knows I was, but I hope you will be especially generous this time. I'm sure those of you who have posted your own stories know how much it means to me to hear from the readers, and for those who don't, trust me, getting the reviews (good, bad, constructive, and ugly) is almost as much fun as writing the story.

If you do review, I'd love to know what you think of Teddy and of Cragen's thoughts about Huang. Thanks so much for reading, whether you review or not.

Jo


	12. Checking In

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Twelve  
Checking In**_

OOO

_Parking Lot  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
11:05 A.M., November 21, 2005_

"Kath, we need to go to the station before we go home," Elliot said as his wife buckled his seatbelt for him in the hospital parking lot. "I need to sign my statement."

"You've got to be kidding me," she said, looking over at him in disbelief as she put the key in the ignition.

He shook his head. "It really needs to be done now," he insisted.

The hourly news was just coming on the radio when she started the engine, and she made a face and switched to the CD player. It was one of Elliot's Tool CDs and she made another face and turned the volume down.

"Why?"

"There are a lot of reasons," he told her vaguely, hoping it would be enough.

She would have none of it. "Like what?" she demanded.

"If I wait 'til after the surgery, the defense can question it," he explained. "How do I know I remembered it rightly? Is it possible the anesthetic has affected my memory? Why did I wait so long to make a statement?"

"You made your statement the night it happened," Kathy said.

"But it doesn't become official until I sign it," he pointed out. "And, I know the odds are slim, but God forbid, if I shouldn't wake up from the anesthesia . . . "

"Elliot!"

"I'm not looking for it to happen any more than you are, Kathy!" he snapped, suddenly angry for no good reason. "But if I don't sign it, they can't use it in court. After what Muriel went through, and I couldn't help her. I was right there, Kath, and I couldn't help her! I need to know I have done everything in my power to get justice for her, and signing that statement so it can be used in court is the only thing in the world I have left that I can do for her. Please, Kath, take me to the station."

"What about yourself, El?" she asked quietly.

"What about me?"

"Don't you deserve justice, too?"

She watched his jaw twitch for a few seconds as he considered his answer. Finally he said, "I have the rest of my life to deal with what happened to me, but Casey Novak gets just one chance to put DeVane in jail for Muriel's murder. I want to make sure that she has everything she needs to nail the son of a bitch, and my statement is the only thing I have to give her."

Part of her wanted to remind him of the pictures and samples from his rape exam, of the physical evidence of his struggle that he must have left at the victim's house, but she didn't, because she knew it didn't matter. Elliot realized his statement wasn't the only thing Casey would have on DeVane, but he felt a responsibility to the victim. She had called on him for help, and he felt he had let her down. This was the only way he had of making it up to her a little; he wouldn't be able to rest until he'd done it.

"Ok," Kathy conceded, putting the car into gear. She took her cell phone from her bag and handed it to him. "Call and make sure it's been written up. There's no sense in going in if it isn't ready for you to sign."

Elliot looked at her gratefully and pressed the numbers to dial his boss and tell him what was going on.

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
11:15 A.M., November 21, 2005_

George jumped slightly as the door slammed behind Olivia, then he sighed in relief. Giving Annie a tentative smile, he said, "I'm sorry about that. Detective Benson had to work awfully hard to get where she is now, and she resents being forced to collaborate with the men in her own squad. Then to bring me in from the FBI, well, no cop likes that, but I think the fact that I'm a man makes it even worse in her mind."

"Perhaps if I filed a complaint that would make a difference," Annie suggested.

Huang nodded and spoke in a low, nervous voice as if, for all the disdain she had showed for his work, Olivia might be listening anyway and would take exception to their discussing her behavior. "You could do that, but I'd be afraid she meant what she said about exposing your relationship with DeVane. She's . . . ruthless."

Annie's eyes went wide and she shivered slightly. Acting genuinely afraid now, she wrapped her arms protectively around herself and asked defeatedly, "So, what can I do?"

_An Ill Wind_

The car had stopped in the precinct parking lot, and Kathy was waiting for Elliot to make a move to get out. He, on the other hand, was holding his breath, sitting ramrod straight in his seat, and clutching the seatbelt with his good hand as if holding on for dear life.

"I can't go in there," he gasped. "Some of them must know what happened, and the others will ask. They'll all want to know how I'm doing, and I just can't talk about it."

He turned to look at his wife and repeated, "I can't go in there, Kath. I can't."

Kathy saw the panic rising in his eyes and knew she had to do something. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she locked her gaze on his and said firmly but gently, "Elliot, stop it."

"But Kath . . . "

"Just stop," she repeated, and when he fell silent, she told him, "Take a breath."

When he obeyed, she commanded, "And another . . . and another . . . Are you ok?"

Elliot nodded. He was still obviously tense, but not panicking.

"All right. Now that you're here, does it matter if you sign your statement inside the station or here in the car?"

"I . . . I suppose not, but in the station they would take me to an interview room where I could read it in private . . . " He looked at her pleadingly, and she knew what he was trying not to ask.

"I'll go for a walk," she said, "there's a coffee shop just down the street, ok?"

"Kathy, I . . . "

"It's fine Elliot," she assured him gently. "You'll tell me what you want me to know when you're ready. Until then, I just want to make sure you're doing all right."

He nodded and gave her a weak smile as she dialed the cell phone. "Thanks, Kath."

She winked back.

_An Ill Wind_

"These notes mentioned that you had a friend who was sexually molested," Huang said. "What was her name?"

Annie frowned. "Daisy Lane," she said shortly. "What does she have to do with Roger DeVane?"

George shrugged. "Probably nothing," he admitted, "but guys like this, if they develop an obsession, they may stalk a potential victim for years before they get the nerve to do anything. He might have known you long before you knew him."

"Are you saying you think he _followed_ me here from DeKalb Junction?" Annie gasped in shock. "You think _I _brought him here to attack those girls?"

"There's no way to tell," George said in his most soothing psychiatrist's voice, "but you are our best connection to him right now. The more we know about you, the better our chances of finding him. Now, what happened to your friend when she was attacked?"

_An Ill Wind_

"Hey, Cap," Elliot greeted his supervisor as Don Cragen exchanged places with Kathy taking her seat in the car while she took a stroll down the street for a cup of coffee.

"Elliot, how's it going?" Cragen asked, not sure whether his detective needed him to be sympathetic or businesslike and hoping he could find a happy medium between the two.

Taking his cue from the captain, Elliot replied, "I'm hanging in there. We saw an orthopedic surgeon this morning about my hand. I'm checking into the hospital tonight and she's gonna operate early in the morning. That's why I wanted to come by and sign my statement today. Is that it?"

He indicated a manila folder in Cragen's hand, and when Don handed it over, Elliot opened it reluctantly. Cragen sat staring out the window for several minutes while Elliot read silently. He could tell from Elliot's breathing when he got to the difficult part, but he said nothing because he knew his detective wouldn't know how to respond. Stabler may have been the one injured, but this brutal attack had hurt everyone who cared about him, too.

Finally, Elliot sniffed a bit, cleared his throat, and in a froggy voice said, "Yeah, that's about right. Ya got a pen?"

Cragen handed him the engraved ballpoint he carried in his pocket. It had been a gift from his wife years ago when he'd made detective. Keeping it on him made him feel close to her even though she'd been gone for years now.

"Any additions or corrections?"

"Nah, everything's here," Elliot answered as he placed the folder on the dashboard and signed it. "Any luck finding him?"

"Olivia's interviewing one of his ex-girlfriends right now," Don said.

"Olivia!" Elliot snapped angrily. "I said I didn't want her working my case, Cap!"

"She isn't, not really," Cragen explained. "She's just doing background research on your old case file on DeVane."

"There's not a hell of a lot of to research there," Elliot grumbled. "I didn't so much catch DeVane as trip over him."

Cragen grinned. "I know, Liv and I called Alphonse in Florida, and after chewing me out for waking him up at nine in the morning, he told us the whole story."

Elliot grinned. "Let me guess, he made it sound a whole lot more heroic than just running like hell, didn't he?"

"Well, you know how Alphonse loves to tell a story." Don chose not to point out that he thought it was pretty damned heroic, too. He knew Elliot was in a fragile state and given the circumstances, complimenting his efforts could upset him as much as criticizing them might.

Elliot chuckled slightly and groaned softly as his ribs complained. "Yeah, I do. So, what did Liv find in the file?"

"A friend of DeVane's who put us on to an ex-girlfriend you never had a chance to find out about and a pattern among the victims," Don answered, grateful that Elliot was taking an interest in police work already. "It looks like he would stalk one girl for a while and as he was following her around to her different activities, he would pick out another little girl to be his next victim. Look, Elliot, do you really want to talk about this?"

Elliot shrugged. "Not really, but what if he comes after me again? What if he comes to my house? My family . . . "

When he stumbled over his words, Cragen broke in, "He's not going to come to your house, Elliot. He's done what he wants to do to you. He wants you to suffer. You can beat him just by taking care of yourself and getting better. We'll get the son of a bitch off the street, ok?"

Don knew there was a possibility that he was wrong, but right now his friend needed reassurance, not the worst-case scenario.

Elliot turned to face his captain and nodded.

"All right. Liv is doing an interview with Huang right now. Would you like to see her? Do you want me to relieve her and send her down?"

"Nah, just . . . just tell her I said thanks and I'll call her soon," he said haltingly. "And tell her I'm doing all right."

"I'll do that," Don nodded, and looking into the rearview mirror, he said, "Perfect timing. Kathy's back."

"All finished?" Kathy asked when the captain opened the door and got out of her car.

"Yep, just now," he replied.

She lifted a cup of coffee out of the cardboard tray she was carrying and handed it to him. "I don't know how you take it, so it's black," she explained.

"Even black is better than that tar Munch makes. Thank you," he grinned, shutting the door behind him, and maneuvered her towards the back of the vehicle.

Kathy frowned, and Don spoke quietly. "There's been another attack," he told her. "And he left a note for Elliot. We have reason to believe there will be several more if we don't catch him. It's made the news. I thought you should know so you can prepare him before he finds out on his own."

Kathy nodded. "Maureen saw it on channel nine yesterday morning," she said. "We've been trying to keep it from him. He hasn't noticed yet that he hasn't seen a paper or heard a news broadcast since the attack."

"Well, sooner or later, he is gonna find out," Don advised her.

"I know," she agreed. "I was hoping maybe Olivia could come out to the house and break it to him. He trusts her, and if he has any questions about the investigation, maybe she could answer them."

Don gave it some thought. Liv would need to look in on her partner soon, he was sure, and it would provide an excellent opportunity for her to do so.

"Ok, when would be a good time?"

Kathy frowned. "I'll have a better idea of that after the surgery on his hand," she said. "Let me call you tomorrow after he wakes up."

"Ok, you know my number, right?"

She smiled. "My husband's been working for you for twelve years," she said moving back toward the driver's door. "I ought to know it by now."

"Ok, I'll be waiting for your call, then."

"Thank you for being so accommodating," she replied as she opened the door and slipped into her place behind the wheel.

"I, uh, guess we'll be seeing you later," she smiled up at him.

"Ok, take care," Don replied shutting the door for her as she took another cup of coffee out of the tray and began doctoring it for Elliot. It seemed he had been dismissed now that she was back to take care of her husband. He couldn't help but smile as he headed back into the station. Kathy and Elliot might have their problems, but when it came right down to it, she was still devoted to him and would look after him no matter what.

_An Ill Wind_

"Ok, if you can't recall what happened to Daisy, can you remember how it affected her?" George asked. This interview wasn't going as well as he would have hoped. He knew Annie wasn't being forthright with him, but he wasn't sure whether she was holding back because talking about her friend's abuse was too distressing for her or because she had something to hide. For some reason, he thought the latter was the more likely explanation, but a gut feeling wasn't evidence and it wouldn't get him a warrant to look into her personal business to see if she had been in contact with DeVane.

Annie inspected her manicure while she answered. "She didn't have anything more to do with boys for a long, long time, I know that, but then in high school, well, I didn't see any of it, but people said she kind of went wild."

"What do you mean, wild?" George coaxed.

"Well, I know she had a lot of boyfriends," Annie explained. "It seemed like she was with a different guy every weekend. The rumor was that she liked them to do things to her."

"What kind of things?"

"Kinky stuff, tie her up, spank her. Sometimes I guess she would hook up with an older guy and get him to buy her sex toys at this adult video store in town. Do you think that's why I was an easy target for Roger, because my best friend was into that kind of stuff?"

Huang shrugged again. "What do you think?" As she had described her friend's behavior, Annie's voice had taken on a breathless, almost longing quality and he wanted to see where she would go if he gave her a little room to wander.

"Well, my mom was awfully strict, and Daisy did know so much more about that kind of stuff than I did." she admitted.

Then her voice turned hard. "I think my mother is more to blame than Daisy. I didn't know anything about anything when I came to the city. Maybe I just needed to experiment and find out for myself."

George nodded accepting her self-assessment, then he stuck his lower lip out thoughtfully. "Did you ever tell DeVane about Daisy's assault? Is there any way he could have found out?"

_An Ill Wind_

"Hey, Chief, was that Elliot and Kathy we saw pulling out when we drove in?" Munch asked as he approached his boss upon entering the squad room.

"Yeah," Cragen replied. "He came in to sign his statement."

"How's he doing?" Fin asked.

"About how you'd expect, I guess."

Fin nodded. "Wish I'd been here to see him," he said.

Cragen shook his head. "He wasn't up to talking to anyone. I had to take his statement down to the car for him to sign."

"Next time you speak to him, have him call me, would you?"

"If it's about a case, you should ask Liv," the captain said. "He's in no shape to think about work just yet."

Fin shook his head. "It's nothing like that," he said. "I wanted to tell him I went to Muriel Faringo's place, and I found where DeVane was hiding. There was no way Elliot would have spotted him."

Munch looked at his partner in surprise. "When did you go to the crime scene?" he asked. "You were with me all day."

Giving his little mischievous smile, Fin answered, "Yesterday when you were interviewing Mrs. Othmer and you thought I was sleeping in."

"Well, you ought to go to Saint Vincent's tonight and tell Elliot yourself," Cragen suggested before Munch could respond. "He's checking in later for an early morning surgery to fix his busted hand, and it would probably ease his mind a little to know that he didn't make any mistakes."

Fin nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that. I would have done it sooner, but I wasn't sure he was up to seeing any of us."

"He might not be," Don warned, "but I think you should try anyway. He could probably use some reassurance. Now, you're back early from your canvass. You must have found something, so give."

As he moved around to his desk, Fin cast his partner a glance. "I have some interviews to schedule with the victims' families," he said by way of excusing himself. "Munch can tell you all about Jeremy and his Mistress and what it really means to be free," he continued with a smirk.

"You only say that because you don't want to have to tell him about assaulting a store clerk who was already in restraints," Munch jibed back.

"Oh, I can't wait to hear about this," Cragen sighed as he walked away, not sounding at all enthusiastic. "In my office, John, and please tell me we're not going to be getting a visit from IAB."

They both looked after their disillusioned captain and then turned to each other and shared a smile. After a shake of his head, Munch followed Cragen, and Fin sat down at his desk to begin making his calls.

_An Ill Wind_

"You know," Annie said thoughtfully, "when he first started getting kinky with me, I really didn't like it. I did tell him about my friend, and he wanted all the details. I . . . I didn't tell him anything, because _I_ didn't know, but I suppose he could have found out on his own."

"Except that in cases of child molestation, the victim's identity is kept out of the public records," George said, wondering what she would do with that information.

"DeKalb Junction is a small town," Annie reminded him. "Everybody knew about it. If he wanted the details, all he would have to do is ask around. He could pretend to be a cop or a PI investigating a similar case, and those rubes would tell him anything he wanted to know."

"But you just said you didn't have any idea what was done to Daisy, and she was your friend."

"Exactly," Annie said. "She was my _friend_. I didn't _want_ to know. I didn't want to embarrass her by asking. I just wanted to be there for her, but to everybody else, it was juicy gossip."

"Ok . . . " George conceded, and tried again. It seemed every time he gave her the opportunity, Annie pounded another nail into DeVane's coffin, and he was hoping, if he nudged her just a bit at the right moment, she would smash her own thumb. "Are you sure she never said anything, maybe you overheard some of the gossip . . . "

Annie slapped the tabletop with her palms making George jump. "_What_ does that have to do with _anything_?" she demanded angrily.

Placing a hand over his chest as if she had really frightened him, George took a deep calming breath and said, "Mrs. Othmer, I'm just trying to get a complete picture of DeVane's . . . perversion. On the one hand, if he thought of the things he did on his own, then this has nothing to do with Daisy, and DeVane is demented, violent, clever, and cunning. We're going to have to outsmart him to catch him. On the other hand, if he's just copying what he learned about from you or someone else who knew Daisy, he's merely perverse, impulsive, obsessive, and lacking in creativity; and before too long he will make a mistake. Then again, if your friend was his first victim and he's been stalking you all this time, he's a hell of a lot more dangerous than we ever thought.

"Believe me, Mrs. Othmer, I know these questions are awkward for you," he sympathized, "but the answers you give me are what will help us stop him. If there's anything you might have told him, I need to know."

Annie wrapped her arms around herself in a protective gesture, closed her eyes, and began rocking. Slowly, two dark, mascara-laden tears made their way down her cheeks, and finally she began to speak.

"My friend was tied up . . . raped . . . beaten with a belt," she said. "It left red marks all over her chest, stomach, and thighs. I know because . . . I . . . I was the one who found her."

As she spoke, Annie's hands had touched the body parts she mentioned. Usually George would sympathize with someone who had made such a traumatic discovery as a child, but the way Annie caressed herself repelled him. Still, partly because he had been raised to be a gentleman and partly because he wanted to appear sympathetic, he offered her his handkerchief.

"And did you tell DeVane about it?"

She nodded, dabbed at her eyes. "Yes. The first time he tied me up, I told him all about it, to . . . to explain why I couldn't do that, but with Roger, sex was all about crossing boundaries, breaking down walls. Every time we were together, he pushed me a little farther. He always told me I would never really love anyone until I could . . . stop holding back. Eventually, he was doing to me everything that had been done to my friend. I didn't like it, but I . . . couldn't stop. It was like a drug. My body craved it."

George nodded, explaining as rationally as he could, "He was mixing a complex cocktail of brain chemicals inside your head. Between the adrenaline surge caused by the fear of breaking taboos, the endorphins released to combat the pain, and of course, the sex itself, he was turning you into an addict as surely as if he had been injecting you with heroin. In fact, I'm surprised he didn't try to get you to take drugs, too."

When Annie didn't correct his last comment, he allowed her to sniffle quietly for a minute or so, and then asked casually, "How's your sex life now?"

_An Ill Wind_

"What did you and Cragen talk about for so long?" Elliot asked after a long silent ride in the car.

"Mostly you," she admitted without really telling him anything. "He wanted to make sure we were managing ok and wondered if we needed any help, that's all."

"What did you tell him?"

"That you were doing as well as can be expected and we'd call if we needed anything."

"It was an awfully long conversation for just that," he said.

"There are a lot of people who care about you, Elliot," she reminded him. "Some of them need a little extra reassurance. I let him know that Maureen was being a lot of help and that when I couldn't convince you to be sensible about something, she usually could."

He smiled faintly and said, "I kind of figured you two were double-teaming me."

"Only with your best interests in mind," she assured him. "So, what do you want to do with the rest of your day?" she asked as she took the Queensboro Bridge across the East River toward home. They had about six hours to kill before she took him to the hospital, and she didn't want him dwelling on what had happened or what was to come.

He shrugged, winced in pain, and said, "I dunno. Do you suppose we could take the kids out of school? Maybe go to the zoo or something?"

"Do you really feel up to spending a day at the zoo, especially as cold as it is?"

"Well, they do have some indoor exhibits, like the reptile house and the nursery," he replied defensively.

Traffic was heavy and moving slowly, so she took advantage of the circumstances to shoot him a 'you've got to be kidding me' look.

"I just want to do something with the kids," he told her plaintively.

"Well, then why don't we rent a couple of videos, take them home, make some pop corn, break out the Monopoly board, and relax at home? Would that work?"

Elliot grinned, feeling happy about something for the first time in a long while. "Yeah, that would be great."

_An Ill Wind_

"_WHAT?_" Annie's voice rose to a shriek on the one flabbergasted word and she stood up, shoving her chair back and began to pace, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

"How dare you? Of all the . . . My relationship with my husband is _none_ of your business! I can't see how it would have any bearing on your case!"

"Please! Mrs. Othmer," George said in a low tone as she continued her screeching complaints. "If DeVane is still interested in you, he will be interested in your husband as well. If you're doing anything together to make him jealous . . . "

She stopped in mid-rant and focused on him. "Then Randall and I are in danger, too."

George nodded reluctantly. "Anything is possible."

She moved back to the table and sat down across from the psychiatrist again. She straightened her clothes, smoothed her hair, twisted her wedding ring nervously, and cleared her throat. Her behavior made George think of an Opera diva preparing to go on stage before for her big aria.

"Randall isn't exactly . . . a wild man, if you know what I mean. In fact, I would have to say he is a bit . . . dull."

She leaned forward, folding her arms on the table in front of her, and all of her reluctance to talk melted away with the opportunity to complain about her husband.

"Straight missionary sex gets the job done, I suppose, but I usually find myself lying awake for hours after Randall has fallen asleep. Whoever said, 'Always leave them wanting more,' couldn't have held his wife or her needs in very high regard."

George raised an eyebrow. "So, what do you do for . . . excitement?"

Annie grinned. "What do you mean?" she asked innocently, batting her eyes at the psychiatrist.

George gave her his friendliest smile in return. "Well, an attractive, obviously healthy woman like you usually requires a certain level of . . . " He twitched his eyebrows suggestively. " . . . stimulation."

Annie's eyes began to sparkle and she got a dreamy look on her face. "I have a few . . . associates who share my interests," she said. "We get together every so often."

"Your husband must be very open-minded to let you satisfy your needs elsewhere," George said admiringly.

Annie snorted derisively. "I come home with fresh highlights, a manicure and a pedicure, and a new tube of lipstick and tell him I spent the weekend at a spa," she explained.

"And he never notices that it doesn't appear on the credit card statement?"

"Oh, I go to the spa," she said, "but they don't itemize, and Randall has no idea the cost of things. So, between the two-hundred-dollar hairstyle, the eighty-dollar manicure and pedicure, and maybe a mudpack or a sweat in the sauna, he doesn't know any better."

"Doesn't it bother you to be living a secret life behind your husband's back?" George was careful to sound merely inquisitive and not at all accusatory.

"Oh, I'm very discrete," she told him.

"Even so," George said delicately, "don't you feel like you're betraying his trust?"

"I love my husband, Agent Huang," Annie said as if any idiot could see that, "and I keep my recreational outings a secret because I want to protect him."

George raised his eyebrows questioningly, and that was enough to compel her to explain more.

"I've been a good wife," she insisted, "joining all the right philanthropic organizations and charities, playing tennis and bridge with the right people, throwing the most spectacular parties and fundraising balls. I deserve some kind of pleasure for myself, but poor Randall has never been able to satisfy me. He would just be crushed to know that I've been faking all these years, so once or twice a month, I spend a weekend with a man who isn't squeamish about doing what it takes to get me where I want to be, and I let my husband think he's the best I've ever had."

George leered slightly, letting her think he was getting into the spirit of the discussion. "How do you keep him from seeing the marks?"

"Oh, they fade in a day or two," she said. "I never take an inexperienced partner. Until then, I just tell him I'm suffering from jet-lag or PMS and don't really feel in the mood. One time, he wouldn't give up, so when he saw the marks, I told him I'd had a full body wrap at the spa and they'd wound the fabric too tight."

"And he believed you?" George asked in his best gossipy tone.

"Randall is a very trusting soul," Annie replied with condescending affection. "I doubt he has the imagination to be suspicious."

George smiled at her once more, and he hoped she didn't see how much she repulsed him.

_Waldorf-Astoria Hotel  
301 Park Ave., Manhattan  
4:35 P.M., November 21, 2005_

"I really appreciate your taking the time to speak to me, Mrs. Fonatine," Fin said as he entered the living area of the hotel suite where Sheila Gardener's mother was staying late that afternoon. "I know this is not a convenient time, and I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Detective, I'm grateful to have you working the case," Evelyn Fontaine said in a surprisingly deep voice as she moved into the kitchenette and returned with a laden coffee tray. "Consider me at your disposal any time you need me. Now, do you have any leads on my daughter's killer?"

Fin frowned and wished his partner was with him as she proceeded to fill a cup with steaming coffee and handed it to him so he could doctor it to his preference. He didn't mind calling victim's families to schedule meetings, but he was never all that comfortable dealing with them face to face, and John, with his clean-cut appearance and undertaker's suits, was much better at projecting an image of sympathetic dependability. The fact that this wasn't the grieving mother he had expected actually made things worse, not better, and he was a little worried that Mrs. Fontaine might suddenly fall apart before he could get answers to all of his questions.

Not wanting to jeopardize the interview, he put his concerns to the back of his mind, deciding to save his questions about the woman's emotional state until the end.

"We have a pretty good idea who did it," he said stirring cream and lots of sugar into his cup. It seemed Mrs. Fontaine liked her coffee strong. Fin suspected that if he poked the spoon into it and let go, it would stand up by itself, like a stick in the mud, and that made him think of his partner again. "What we don't know is exactly how he picked your daughter."

"So, you're looking to me to fill in the blanks in her social life," Evelyn said, sticking a Virginia Slim in the corner of her mouth and lighting it with a match from one of the hotel's complimentary matchbooks. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, which explained her unnaturally deep voice, and courteously blew the smoke out away from Fin and in the direction of the ventilation air intake so it wouldn't circulate around the room so much. She took another puff and her next words came out on a stream of blue tobacco smoke.

"I don't really know how much help I can be, Detective," she said in a tone which led Fin to wonder if the woman had dealt with the police in a professional capacity at one time. "My daughter and I have always been close, but since I retired to Florida with her step-father three years ago, we haven't seen much of each other, just the usual holidays and a week or two in the summer."

"Actually, ma'am, the information we need from you probably isn't all that recent."

Evelyn said nothing but sucked on her cigarette, blew the smoke out of the corner of her mouth and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. Feeling a bit off balance again, Fin took her expression as a request to continue.

"You see, your daughter's attack matches the MO of a guy one of our detectives put away about twelve years ago, except that he was assaulting little girls back then. We think he had a list of targets, and once he got out he just picked up where he left off. He started with the girl that our detective rescued and . . ."

"And my daughter was just the next name on his hit list, is that right?" The tone of the question, the way her voice dropped in volume, was the first sign that she really had felt the loss of her child.

"Yes, ma'am," Fin said compassionately.

She shook out another cigarette, lit it from the burning end of the first one, which was already down almost to the filter, and then stubbed the old one out. Crossing the room to the windows, which offered a spectacular view of Manhattan, she blew another lungful of blue smoke and asked, "How did the bastard get parole?"

Fin knew the question was rhetorical, but he answered it anyway. "Actually, it was compassionate release," Fin said. "He has a terminal illness, and, as a reward for his good behavior, was supposed to be allowed to die in a half-way house where he could be surrounded by his friends and family. Unfortunately, he wasn't as ill as the parole board seemed to think he was. I know it doesn't ease the pain of losing your daughter, but if you can help me, maybe we can stop him before he attacks again."

_An Ill Wind_

George opened the folder and spread the photos of the victims out for Annie to see.

"Do you recognize any of these girls, Annie?" he asked as gently as he could, for despite the way she was deceiving her husband, she was still playing the victim where DeVane was concerned and would expect his sympathy.

She studied the photographs for a long while. There were seven of them, including one of Muriel Faringo as a child. George had left out the new pictures of Muriel's body and Sheila and Ralph Gardener because he wanted to see how she reacted to the images of the molested girls first.

"These . . . these are the girls Roger . . . hurt, aren't they?"

"Yes," George told her. "Do you remember any of them? From before he was arrested, I mean."

She barely glanced at the photo of Muriel Faringo, fully clothed and looking rather bewildered immediately after her rescue, but her gaze lingered on each of the other little girls, all of them looking battered and frightened, clad only in a children's hospital gown which was opened to the waist to reveal the marks left by DeVane's beating. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilated, and when her tongue came out to moisten her lips, George knew he wasn't just dealing with a woman who hid a few sexual kinks from her straight-laced husband. Annelle O'Keefe Othmer was a deeply disturbed individual, and George felt the thrill of the chase as he became suddenly determined to discover what had made her that way and what role she played in DeVane's perverse fantasies. He still wasn't convinced that she had known about the assaults when they happened, but he didn't doubt that she had eaten up every detail once she'd found out.

Annie sighed, straightened up in her chair, and pushed the pictures away. "I, um . . . I don't know that I've seen any of them before in my life. Maybe they came into Lenny's Tavern with their families when I was working there, but that was twelve years ago. I don't know how you think I would ever recognize them now."

She stacked the pictures together, turned them face down. "I understand he's raped and murdered four people since he's been out of prison," she said almost eagerly. "If he's stalking me like you seem to think, maybe I know some of them."

George wasn't squeamish, one couldn't afford it in his line of work, but Annie's attitude was making him slightly ill. He turned over the pictures of Muriel Faringo and Sheila and Ralph Gardener, but, for no logical reason that he could discern, he held onto the pictures of Elliot from the rape kit. He would have questioned the motivation behind such behavior in one of his colleagues, but he told himself that he just didn't want his friend sullied in any way by this perverted woman.

"Oh, my, he's going after men." Her comment, muttered mostly to herself seemed to Huang to have a tone of admiration.

"You only gave me three pictures," she said irritably. "Where's the fourth?"

"We're protecting that individual's identity for a reason," George replied facilely. Annie raised an eyebrow, and he elaborated, "Let's just say that, were we to release his identity, the resulting media attention would complicate the case without generating any useful leads."

"I see," she said, sounding annoyed. "Well, I don't know any of these people, so, what's next?"

George looked through his list of topics and questions. It seemed he had covered all of them, though some of her answers had raised more questions that he would have to look into before he interviewed her again. Checking things off as he read down the page, he finally said, "I think we're done, at least for now. Do you have a . . . private number you would like us to call if we need to reach you again?"

Annie smiled at him and using his pen, jotted a telephone number on the sheet of paper he slid across the table to her.

_An Ill Wind_

"I need to know what kinds of things your daughter did twelve years ago, extracurricular activities, lessons, stuff like that."

Evelyn nodded, reached for the phone on the end table beside the sofa and dialed a long distance number. Feeling a bit nonplussed, Fin waited quietly. Her actions hadn't seemed particularly rude, but somehow, it seemed as if he had been suddenly dismissed. Abruptly, he realized she was acting just as he did back in the squad room when the captain instructed him to locate some piece of information. There was never any need to go into detail about what he was doing, because the captain trusted him to do what he was told. He just got on the computer or on the phone and found out whatever Cragen wanted to know. Again, he wondered about Mrs. Fonatine's background, but not for long, because the party at the other end of the call picked up before he had much chance to speculate.

"Ron? Hi honey . . . Ok, considering . . . I'm with the detective investigating the case right now. He wants to know about the things Sheila did when she was a kid . . . Because he thinks the guy who did it is someone they put away twelve years ago, look, can we talk about this later? Right now I need to answer the detective's questions and I need your help . . . Can you get Sheila's memory book out of my office?"

Apparently her husband had put the phone down because she looked at Fin and said, "I don't want to forget anything, so I'm going to have him go through her memory book. Everything she did as a kid is in there."

Fin nodded and again wondered at the woman's presence of mind. She should have been a wreck, but she was acting like a professional investigator.

"Twelve years ago, right?" she inquired softly.

"Yeah, maybe even thirteen," Fin told her.

"I know she was a beautiful baby, Ron," she said soothingly into the phone as she nodded to Fin, "but we don't need to go that far back . . . Start with middle school . . . She would have been, oh, eleven then . . ."

Evelyn snapped her fingers at Fin and indicated the notebook that was resting on his knee and made writing motions. Getting the impression that she was used to commanding people, he tore a few sheets loose and handed them to her along with his pen.

"Ok, Ron, I remember band, choir, dance, and Girl Scouts. What else did she do back then?"

For the next twenty minutes or so, Fin sat idly sipping coffee while Evelyn Fontaine expertly questioned her husband about Sheila's childhood activities. He interjected a question every now and then just to keep from feeling superfluous and to remind himself that he was the cop and she was the bereaved mother.

"Ok, thank you, Honey. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Ask him to bring the memory book and any other scrapbooks you might have of Sheila from that time," Fin said before she hung up.

Evelyn relayed the request and then hung up the phone. "I can't remember the names of all the organizations or where some of her sports and clubs met, but most of them are still probably in my address book. I'll get a list for you by the end of the day. What else do you need?"

Fin took the pictures of the child victims out of his folder and felt grateful that each of the parents had provided school pictures twelve years ago. He knew Huang was using the hospital photos in his interview with DeVane's old girlfriend to see how she responded, but he didn't want to plant those images in the head of a grieving mother.

"I need you to look at these pictures and tell me if you recognize any of these girls. We believe they were all attacked by the same man who killed your daughter, and they're all about her age now."

Evelyn took the pictures and frowned at the first one. Hastily, she flipped to the next one, and then the next. "Oh, my God!"

"What is it?"

"These girls are all from the Saturday School!"

"Saturday School? We don't have any record of anything like that."

"You wouldn't," Evelyn said. "It was a program for girls at a new community center a few blocks from P.S. 1 Contemporary Arts Center just off of Queens Boulevard. It offered all kinds of programs, ceramics, music, modern dance, poetry. Sheila was particularly excited about the young writer's workshop co-sponsored by Barnard College's MFA program. We met once, and then it burned to the ground that Wednesday. They rebuilt the center, but by then, Sheila was involved in other things."

"If you only met once, how can you possibly remember these faces?" Fin asked.

"I made the name badges on my computer," Evelyn explained. "I was the only parent with enough computer savvy and the right equipment to do it. Each child had a photo ID she was supposed to pin to her top. It said, 'Hello! My name is . . . ' I filled in all the names, attached the photos, and printed them out."

She laid out the eight-by-tens one at a time, like a card shark laying out a poker hand, and said, "This is Suzie, and Kelly, and Sam, Elise, Karen, Ceci, and Muriel."

Feeling the excitement that always came with an important break in a case, Fin asked in amazement, "How can you recall those names after all this time?"

Smiling, Evelyn told him, "I have a photographic memory, Detective. Show me something, anything, and if I have seen it before, I can fill in the blanks for you. I'm sure I still have all of the names and photos. I just transferred them all to a flash drive a few weeks ago. It's in my office in Florida. Give me an e-mail address and I can have my husband send them to you along with whatever contact information we had back then."

_Room 417  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
6:45 P.M., November 21, 2005_

"What's that?" Elliot asked nervously as the nurse injected something into his IV line. They had started him on fluids the night before his surgery, and he could tell by the way he was feeling that they were also giving him something for pain.

"It's just Compazine," she told him. "Same stuff that's in the tablets you take for nausea. I'm starting it a little early in the hopes that your Combivir won't make you so sick when you take it at seven."

"Oh, uh, ok."

Dickie happened to be sitting in the chair on the right side of the bed and he took his dad's good hand in his own. "Don't be scared about the operation, Dad," he said. "You'll just fall asleep, and when you wake up, the pain will be gone."

He looked down at his son and managed not to laugh at the somber face. "Oh, yeah?"

"That's what you told me when I had my appendectomy."

"Was it true?" Elliot asked seriously.

"Mostly. The stitches were sore for a while, but that's all."

Elliot squeezed Dickie's hand and said, "Thanks, Son."

Dickie nodded and brought his other hand up to pat his dad's in a gesture that was so grown up that Elliot had to wonder where the hell he had been all of the boy's life. Not wanting to upset his children, he swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay. He knew they would be misread as anxiety, and didn't want to have to explain that they were really caused by regret.

_An Ill Wind_

Fin re-read his notes, marking things he knew he would have to check into further before he could take any action. Finally satisfied that he had all the information he needed at the moment, he looked at Evelyn Fontaine and smiled.

"Thank you for your time," he said, "you've been very helpful."

Smiling back, she replied, "I'm glad I could help you, and thank you for everything you are doing to find my daughter's killer."

Fin felt it again, that frisson that told him something was off kilter here. "Mrs. Fontaine," he said hesitantly, "I don't want to offend you, but . . . "

When he hesitated, she nudged him, "Yes?"

"Please understand, I'm not saying your behavior is suspicious, but, it's not what I would expect from a woman who has just lost her only child."

"Oh, I had a good cry before you got here," she told him.

"Even so, I'm still a little concerned about the way you're acting," Fin said, trying to get an explanation of her odd demeanor without sounding like he was accusing her of not caring that her daughter had been brutally murdered. He took out his wallet and fished out a business card, not his own, which he handed to her.

"You should consider calling Victims' Services," he said. "They can put you in touch with a grief counselor."

Evelyn accepted the card graciously. "I appreciate your concern and your sympathy, Detective, but I am grieving my daughter. I'm just saving my tears for the funeral."

"I see," Fin replied dubiously. "Call them anyhow," he persisted. "In my experience, for most people, having such a tight control on your emotions can only take you bad places."

"I am not most people," Evelyn pointed out. "I had a career that required me to control my emotions before I became a wife and mother."

At Fin's quizzically raised eyebrow, she said, "Officially, I was just a secretary at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran in 1979, and I got out before they started taking hostages. It was, quite literally, a do-or-die proposition for me."

Fin nodded, smiling, not sure he understood, and not sure he wanted to. He was grateful now that Munch wasn't with him. "All right, Mrs. Fontaine. I'll be looking for those e-mails."

"They'll be waiting in your in box before you get back to your station, Detective," she said, walking him to the door. "I'll do anything I can to help you catch my daughter's killer; but I want you to know, if for some reason you can't get the son of a bitch, I have friends who will. They will have no reservations about giving him the slow and painful death he deserves, and you'd never be able to build a case against them for it."

Fin felt his spine stiffen. He was a good cop who worked hard at his job, but every case always had the potential to be won or lost on a technicality. "Yes, ma'am. I understand."

As he walked down the hall, Fin took a few deep breaths. His next stop was Saint Vincent's. He wasn't sure how he would be received, but he knew the captain was right. Elliot needed to hear his news tonight, before going into surgery. A person's state of mind had a lot to do with how they fared in the hospital, and if he could relieve Elliot's burden of guilt, it could speed his recovery significantly.

_An Ill Wind_

"Bye, Dad, see you in the morning."

Elliot pulled all four of his kids into a group hug and said, "Love you guys."

He kissed each of them on the head before letting them go, and as they walked out of the room, he said, "Remember, Maureen is in charge until Mom gets home."

Dickie, Lizze, and Kathleen grumbled an acknowledgement, and after giving her dad a conspiratorial wink and blowing her parents a kiss, Maureen followed them out.

"Thanks," Elliot smiled up at his wife.

"For what?"

"For letting me spend the day with the kids. Do you think it freaked them out too much, pulling them out of school like that to go home and watch movies?"

Kathy shrugged. "I don't think so. When they look back on it a few years from now, they will probably realize that their dad was in a very vulnerable state and needed the comfort of his family around him, but today, I think they were just excited to get out of school early."

"Ok, I'll take your word for it, but promise me that you'll make them go back tomorrow once I am out of surgery."

"Are you kidding? I need a day to clean the house before Thanksgiving. As soon as you're conscious, I'm making Maureen take them to school. When they release you, we're going home, and you're gonna sit there and watch TV while I get some housework done."

Before Elliot could defend his housekeeping skills, there was a knock at the door and a familiar face peeked in.

"Fin?" Elliot frowned looking a little puzzled and extremely uncomfortable. "Wh- What are you doing here?"

"Cragen told me you were checking in for surgery in the morning and suggested I stop by."

Narrowing his eyes, Elliot asked suspiciously, "Why?"

"I was at the crime scene yesterday . . . "

"No!" Elliot snapped. "I don't want to talk about it. Not tonight and not in front of my wife."

"Look, I just want to tell you . . . " Fin tried again. This wasn't going well.

"I said no!" Elliot almost shouted. "Now shut up and get out!"

"Elliot!" Kathy gasped, but as the two men got into it, she knew her voice wouldn't be heard, so she just moved quietly to the window and watched, determined to get Detective Tutuola out of the room if things got too intense.

Fin, on the other hand, was just as determined to deliver his message. "You didn't screw up."

Elliot was prepared to shout him down again, but he narrowed his eyes instead and growled viciously, "A woman is dead, Fin! She was murdered not ten feet away from me. Just how the _hell_ did I _not_ screw up?"

"He was waiting for you, Elliot," Fin explained calmly. "I found his hiding place. There was no way you would have seen him. Nobody who followed procedure would have."

"You did," Elliot pointed out.

"I had an hour to look around, and there wasn't a woman needing help right in front of me," Fin reminded him.

Elliot laughed sarcastically. "A lot of help _I_ was to her."

"Let yourself off the hook, man, you did your best," Fin said compassionately.

"It wasn't enough. I'm a cop, damn it," Elliot's voice broke on the word cop, but he was too upset and angry with himself to notice, so he just plowed on ahead. "My job is to protect people. Muriel Faringo is dead, and it's my fault. I failed. I screwed up. I let her down."

Fin could see a complicated mix of emotions on his friend's face and hear it in his voice. Elliot was angry and tearful, close to panicking and spoiling for a fight. Things were not going at all as planned. He had hoped to give the other detective some peace of mind that he had done things right even though they had gone horribly wrong, but as far as he could tell, he was only making Elliot more upset and agitated. He had to do something fast to control the situation. Since he was more comfortable dealing with a pissed off Elliot than a weepy and fearful one, he opted for a confrontational attitude hoping the other detective would rise to his bait.

"You know what the hell your problem is?" Fin said antagonistically as he stepped closer to the bed so that Elliot had to look up at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kathy moving towards him, but he backed her off with a glance.

Kathy stayed by the window wringing her hands. This was the most spirit she'd seen from her husband since she'd come to sit with him the night of the attack. She wasn't sure if it was good or bad for him, but she knew Elliot trusted this man with his life, had counted on him for advice and back up on undercover assignments, and for some reason, she trusted that Fin knew what he was doing now.

"What's my problem?" Elliot asked in a challenging tone, tilting his chin up defiantly, almost daring Fin to bring it on.

"Your problem is you think bein' a cop make you freakin' Superman, but it don't. Bad as you wanna be, you still just a white boy from Queens!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Ohhhh, yeah. An' I'm still just a nigga from the hood, an' sometimes, no matter what we do, it ain't enough. Bein' cops don't make us invincible. Sometimes, we can do everything right, an' the bad guy still wins.

"I'd a done just what you did, Elliot," he said, "an' you ain't no better 'n me, so stop actin' like you think you shoulda done more. The cap'n played your statement for me an' Munch."

He looked from Elliot to Kathy and knew not to say anything more about that.

"You followed procedure. You did everything right. You did everything you could. It just wasn't enough. You ain't responsible for every bad scene you can't fix, Elliot. Some things, no body can make right. Muriel Faringo died 'cause Roger DeVane is a evil son of a bitch, not 'cause you screwed up."

Fin placed a hand gently on his colleague's arm and slipped out of the street vernacular as easily as he had slipped into it. Talking tough, and being able to do so convincingly, was a convenient way to make himself heard among his white, middle class colleagues, but once he'd made his point it was time to go back to his professional language so they could relate to him again and really connect with what he was saying.

"You did your job, Elliot," he said compassionately, "and you did it the right way, so stop thinking you're a better cop than the rest of us, because you're not. Any of us could have been there, and she would have died anyway. I know it's not exactly good news, but you can stop blaming yourself."

Fin could tell the other detective had heard him. Elliot was still angry, but he had heard him. He gave him a pat on the arm and a squeeze on the shoulder, nodded at Kathy, and walked away.

"Fin?"

He stopped at the door when Elliot called his name.

"Yeah?"

"I don't think I'm a better cop than you."

Fin turned and said, "Then stop expecting so much more of yourself."

Elliot pressed his lips into a firm, determined line and nodded slowly. Meeting his colleague's eyes, he said, "Thanks for coming by."

Fin nodded once, and then he was gone.


	13. Reflections

**Author's Note: **Wow, I hadn't realized it had been so long since I had updated this story. Sorry for the delay. If you have time to review, I'd love to hear your predictions/expectations for the upcoming chapters, also, as always, if there is anything that particularly moves you or makes you laugh, I'd like to know. Thanks. Jo.

_**An Ill Wind  
**_

_**Chapter Thirteen  
Reflections**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
7:30 P.M., November 21, 2005_

Monday evening found the team sitting around the bullpen picking at the remains of a pizza as they summarized what they had learned that day. It had been three days since Elliot was assaulted, and all of them were existing in a state of what could only be described as functional exhaustion. The job had taught them to perform at the top of their games even with a certain degree of fatigue, and, until they got justice for their violated friend, like so-called functional drug addicts, the dedicated detectives would suffer from withdrawal if they stayed away from the case too long.

As before, Olivia would present her information first, and then, when the discussion turned to recent events, she would be excused to attend to the cases she had taken over from Munch and Fin. It wasn't the ideal situation, but Cragen didn't want to exclude Olivia altogether anymore than he wanted to ignore Elliot's request to keep her off the investigation of his assault. As complex as this case was becoming, he wasn't sure how long they could go on the way they were, but until he absolutely had to make a choice, he was willing to maintain the status quo.

"Ok, Liv, what have you got?" Don asked.

Liv shoved the last of her pizza crust into her mouth and, still chewing, she got up and handed around copies of a multicolored Excel spreadsheet she had spent the afternoon creating. The victims' names ran down the left, and check boxes listing their various interests and activities ran across the page to the right.

Swallowing hard and chasing the pizza with a swig of diet cola, she finally spoke. "These are the names that Evelyn Fontaine's husband e-mailed to Fin," she said. "Those nametags would have been a pedophile's dream, all of his little gifts conveniently tagged for him, and as soon as he uses a child's first name she feels safe because she thinks he knows her."

"Yeah," Fin agreed, "I had the same thought when Mrs. Fontaine mentioned them to me. Kinda makes me think schools should reconsider issuing photo IDs."

The rest of the group nodded, and Liv was sure she wasn't the only one grateful that Elliot wasn't there. As the only one of the team with young children, he didn't need one more reason to worry about their safety.

"There are seventy three girls in all from the Saturday School," Liv continued. "I've given the other names to Detectives Robinson and Maldonado to check against reports that may have been filed just in case there is more going on here than meets the eye. I want to focus on the ones who signed up for the writing workshop for now. That's where all our vic's came from and you can see a pattern among them."

Sure enough, when the names of the early victims, current victims, and other girls Olivia had been able to track down from the writing workshop were listed in the right order, every pair of girls had another activity, besides the writing, in common.

"When you exclude the original victims, Muriel Faringo, and Sheila Gardener, that leaves seven girls in the writing workshop," Olivia informed them.

"Wait! That doesn't jive with the five pairs of cuffs DeVane wanted at XxxTreme Emporium," Fin interjected. "He used one pair on Ralph Gardener, and he should only have four girls to go."

"Just because they were in the writing workshop doesn't mean he'll go after them," Huang reasoned. "It could be that three of the girls didn't have anything else in common with the others, or maybe, in his mind, there was some kind of defect that made them unsuitable. When you contact those women, you really need to look into how they're different from the rest. It might help us figure out what he's looking for in a victim so we can stop him before he goes after another little girl."

Fin nodded, accepting the logic of his explanation, then looking at Olivia, he asked, "Is comthea short for community theatre?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Do you have the address?"

"On the second page," Liv told him.

Fin turned to the list of addresses and began comparing it against his notes.

"Yep, you can put Sheila down for that, then," he said a moment later as he flipped back to the first page and drew in an 'x' on his copy of the spreadsheet. "The address you have for Sandy Harper's drama classes is the same as the one Mrs. Fontaine gave me. You can also add computers and violin lessons. She did a lot of other stuff, too, but everything else is already on your list and none of it matches up with the addresses you have for the other girls."

"Give me a copy of your notes anyway," Liv requested. "This spreadsheet only has the things I could pair off between the girls. I have a bigger one that shows everything they did. What you have might match up with something there."

Fin nodded. "I'll get you a copy as soon as we're done here," he said.

"What about the names you have highlighted in orange?" Cragen asked.

"I haven't been able to locate them yet," Olivia explained, "but I have been able to warn the other two potential vics, Lauren Sebastian and Sandy Harper. Lauren is leaving town to get married in Bermuda tonight. She'll get back with me in two weeks when she returns from the honeymoon, and Sandy has already requested protection."

"Were you able to arrange it?" Munch asked hopefully.

Liv gave him a 'what do you think' look. "We don't have the manpower, and I can't get the overtime approved unless there is a direct threat."

"So we call these women, 'Hi, this is the police. There's a man planning to rape you and your significant other. Then he's going to kill you both after brutally torturing you, but we can't provide any protection because he hasn't actually come after you yet,'" he said in disgust, not with Olivia but with the lack of funding and the bureaucratic red tape that sometimes prevented them from doing their jobs.

"So, you're going to continue trying to locate the rest of the potential vics, right, Liv?" Cragen asked before she could respond to Munch's sarcasm.

She nodded her confirmation, "I'm giving top priority to Marsha Weller because both Lauren and Sandy knew her before the writing workshop. She's the link between them."

"Ok, get someone to help you. We need to warn her quickly."

"I already have Moulson and Brindisi on it," she replied.

Cragen nodded. "That's good work, Liv." Looking at the rest of his team as she collected her things and left, he asked, "Ok, who's next?"

_Room 417  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
7:52 P.M., November 21, 2005_

Elliot sighed and sat up with a groan. It was almost eight, and he had sent Kathy home a few minutes after seven, just as soon as the nurse had given him his Combivir. He had promised to rest and get some sleep, but it was proving easier said than done.

He put the guardrail down on his bed and swung his legs over the side. Sliding his feet into some conveniently placed slippers, he grabbed the IV stand beside his bed for support and stood up. His bum ankle complained a little, but he managed to shuffle out of his room and down the hall, not sure where he was going, but certain that he wouldn't be able to rest until he worked out whatever was bothering him.

At the end of the hall was a lounge for visitors to wait in while their loved ones were being treated, and across from that was a directory. He saw on the floor plan that the hospital chapel was three levels below him. Not sure that it would do any good, he decided to make his way there.

People made room for him as he entered the elevator, wheeling his IV ahead of him, but he didn't make eye contact, so no one spoke. He was grateful that he had been allowed to wear his own pajamas for the night instead of a flimsy, backless hospital gown. He was feeling vulnerable enough as it was, and made a point of keeping his back to the wall and watching everybody in the car. The kind of exposure he would have had to deal with in a standard gown probably would have pushed him to another panic attack.

On the ground floor, he wandered down the hall to the gift shop and then turned left. The chapel doors were right in front of him. He entered, surprised to find it empty, and moved toward the altar. Painfully lowering himself to one knee, he genuflected, rose again, and moved to the nearest pew. He leaned back, hands folded in his lap, and stared at the crucifix on the wall. After a few minutes, unaware of the two tears that were making their way down his cheeks, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and tried to pray, though he wasn't sure anymore that anybody was listening.

_The Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
8:04 P.M., November 21, 2005_

Kathy Stabler sat in the car watching the shadows of her children against the curtains as they played in the living room and she wondered what Elliot saw those nights when he was able to get home before they all went to bed. Inside the house with them, she had always seen four happy, well-adjusted kids, who were secure in the knowledge that, whatever else happened, their parents would always love them. Now, for the first time, she thought she had some idea of what Elliot felt when he came home. He would have been proud, happy, filled with love, and terrified that something horrible would happen and he wouldn't be able to protect them.

She took a deep breath, surprised at how that fear made her heart pound, and watched for a moment longer, to be sure they were safe. She could tell Dickie and Lizzie were wrestling by the way their silhouettes repeatedly came together, contorted, and moved apart. When they were little, Elliot had worked a miracle to get Dickie to understand that it was ok to wrestle with his twin sister when she was willing, but he was absolutely never allowed to hit girls, ever, and he should not wrestle with any of them except his tomboy twin. The second prohibition, which he applied to Lizzie as well, had been the only way to keep her from assaulting the other boys in school. Kathy wondered how long they would continue the horseplay.

They were thirteen years old now, and Lizzie was proving a little slow to blossom. With her straight, slim, undeveloped figure, the physicality of trying to pin each other to the floor wasn't an issue yet, but socially Lizzie was a little ahead of Dickie. Already, she was embarrassed to have her friends know what she and her brother did for fun, and poor Dickie had been a bit nonplussed when she had slapped him and called him a big, dumb, ugly dork for putting her in a headlock in front of everyone at their last birthday. Once she developed a few curves and her first crush, the living room wrestling ring would have to revert to a couch and a couple of armchairs. Kathy could only hope that Dickie and Lizzie would find a natural ending to their roughhousing days and not require their parent's intervention to explain why they couldn't grab onto each other that way anymore.

Smiling ruefully, Kathy realized that if they had to have that talk, it would fall to her. Elliot could talk about all sorts of personal, sexual issues at work. He could take a rape victim's statement, hold a little girl's hand through a pelvic exam, testify about a city councilman exposing himself in the park, and not bat an eye when defense attorneys tried to embarrass him by suggesting that choosing to work sex crimes was his own personal perversion. When it came to talking about anything remotely sexual with his own offspring, though, he became an awkward, blithering idiot who either left the children more confused than when they started, or just left them thinking their dad was hopelessly square.

Kathy frowned. What was the contemporary word for square anyway? She'd never heard her kids use it. Maybe it was whack. They used whack for a lot of things, didn't they? She sighed at yet another reminder that she was getting _old_.

As she watched the shadows, she saw Lizzie get the best of her brother. She had sprouted up like a weed the previous summer and was a good two inches taller than him, but it wouldn't be long before Dickie hit his next growth spurt. Kathy doubted if Liz would ever be able to beat him again after that. All their lives, she had hit every milestone ahead him, but he had always grown faster and for a longer period of time when the hormones finally did kick in. Now that she thought about it, Kathy realized thankfully that adolescence would probably terminate the wrestling simply because Lizzie couldn't stand to lose and once Dickie got to be three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, she would have no chance of ever winning another match against him.

Kathy cringed as Dickie lost his balance and sat down hard on the chunky coffee table. Then Kathleen shot up from the couch and started flailing her arms dramatically. Kathy smiled, her middle daughter was always dramatic, as if she felt she had to be to get noticed. Now Maureen was getting involved, hands were gesticulating and feet were stamping, and Kathy considered going in to break things up. Just as she was opening the car door, Maureen pointed one hand in the direction of the kitchen and the other toward the stairs. Lizzie stomped off to the kitchen, probably to do the dishes, and Dickie tramped up the stairs, most likely to clean the bathtub and toilet. They were two of Kathy's most effective punishments and all of the younger ones knew if they didn't do it when their older sister was in charge, their mom would stick them with it twice a week for a month.

Now Kathleen was in full flow, head thrown back, arms raised, imploring whatever deity might be listening to deliver her from the torture of having siblings. Maureen stood watching her calmly, and when Kathleen finally looked at her again, she just shook her head, shrugged, and walked away. Kathleen stood dumbfounded for a moment, unable to believe that she didn't have a sympathetic audience in her big sister, and then she stormed out of the living room, too.

Kathy was impressed with the way her eldest daughter had handled things, and though she would never pressure her to marry and have kids, she sincerely hoped Maureen's child rearing skills would be put to good use one day. As Kathy got out of the car to head into the house, Kathleen came flying down the steps, clearly overwrought. She tried to push past her mother, but Kathy blocked her way.

"Where are you going?"

"_For a walk!_" Kathleen shouted.

"Not in that state and not after dark," Kathy said soothingly.

Kathleen tried to spin away from her, but Kathy held her fast.

"_Just leave me alone, Mom!_"

"Tell me what happened," Kathy commanded gently.

That opened the floodgates. "I finished my model of the Alhambra and I was painting it, and those two brats smashed it, but you're going to take their side anyway because you always do, and it's due Monday, and Mrs. Díaz is going to give me an F if it's late, and I want to go back to Grandma's!"

Not knowing how to respond to the last revelation, delivered in a squeaky voice because Kathleen hadn't paused for breath and was running out of air, Kathy just wrapped her arms around her second born and shushed her. "It's all right. I'll talk to her. I'll explain."

_An Ill Wind_

"You already know we found the sex shop DeVane went to," Munch began as he took a note from a junior detective and read it. "It took a little not-so-gentle persuasion from my partner, but we know he'll be back."

Cragen raised an eyebrow at Fin and said, "I hope that persuasion didn't rise to the level of coercion or harassment."

"Not at all, Captain," John responded before his partner could speak, "Fin was just yanking his chain."

"Oh, yeah, like that's funny," Fin replied, and as John excused himself, he explained, "There's not much left to tell about the canvass. DeVane went to XxxTreme Emporium and requested five pairs of chrome-plated cuffs. They only had three in the shop, he ordered two more. He'll be back. The owner is willing to cooperate, but she won't let us use video monitoring because she is afraid we might use it against her clients somehow."

"I'll bet Munch just loved this woman for her paranoia," Cragen said with a grin.

"Oh, yeah, and they had a real interesting conversation. He would have argued with her all day if we'd had the time."

"So, if we can't record the clients coming in, what is she allowing us to do?"

"We had to station a detective in the back room of the shop and set up a silent alarm for the clerk to let him know when DeVane came in," Fin replied.

"Why such an elaborate setup?" Huang asked. "Why not just put him in as a clerk?"

"Because to fit in with the staff, our guy wouldn't be able to wear enough clothing to conceal a weapon, and he would have to be, uh, chained to his work station. Mistress caters to a particular kind of freak, and she likes to set the atmosphere for them from the moment they walk in."

"Mistress?" Don inquired.

"It's the only name she would give us," Fin said. "We have someone checking business records to find out who she really is and if she has a record, but she seems legit."

When Cragen raised an eyebrow, he added, "As least as legit as a person can be in a business like hers anyway. She also offered to circulate DeVane's picture among her friends for us."

"So, now we've got the sex industry working for us," Cragen said in a tone that showed he wasn't sure if he liked the idea or not. "Great. How did it go with Sheila's Gardener's mom?" he asked.

Fin shook his head. "That woman is into some kind of serious business," he said. "Sounds like CIA or something. Munch would have had a field day with her. Whatever she does, she has ice water in her veins."

"Was she willing to help, or is she indifferent about her daughter's death?" Huang asked.

"She might be more help than we need," he said. "Besides getting Liv that list of names, she told me in no uncertain terms that if we didn't get DeVane, she had people who would. One way or another, the bastard's going to hell."

"Yeah, well, let's make sure it's with a needle in his arm at a state facility and not in a dark alley where we have to waste manpower trying to find out who offed the prick, ok?" Cragen requested.

"I'm with you, Cap, but I'm not sure how long Mrs. Fontaine is willing to wait for us to get him."

Don sighed, "Sometimes I have to wonder if citizen involvement in law enforcement is a good idea." Looking to Huang, he asked, "How did it go with Annie?"

George turned to Fin first and said, "You might want to take her picture back to your sex shop and see if they know her there. She gets off on a little violence, a little submission, and I won't be surprised if she and DeVane connect with one another again before this is all over."

Fin nodded and muttered to himself, "What makes it my sex shop?"

Cragen and Huang shared an amused look and the doctor continued, "Mrs. Othmer definitely has some kind of sexual pathology. She views having kinky sex with relative strangers on the sly as a way of protecting her husband. He doesn't meet her needs, and she doesn't want to hurt his feelings, so she lets him do what he wants and then goes off and gets her BDSM fix from someone else. She's narcissistic and manipulative, with an overdeveloped sense of drama. She knows most people view what she does as inappropriate, scandalous, even repulsive, and she wants to keep it a secret."

"Because she's ashamed?" Fin asked.

"No," Huang replied. "Because she would lose status with her husband's friends if they found out. I suspect she was abused or assaulted as a child."

"Could she have been one of DeVane's victims?" Cragen asked. "Before they met in Manhattan, I mean."

Huang shrugged. "I doubt it. In our interview, I suggested that perhaps DeVane had been stalking her for years, and she made a leap from that to the possibility that he had followed her to the city from her hometown. She made the connection far too quickly for someone who was just putting things together. I'd say it's far more likely that they were already friendly before she came to Manhattan and he met up with her when he arrived here.

"If he had abused her as a child, I am sure she would have said something. In her mind, it would have excused her unusual proclivities. I have no doubt that if her society friends ever found out what she is really doing when she goes to the spa, she would play them for sympathy and probably get it. As it was, when I gave her the opportunity to explain herself, she blamed her mother because she was too strict and her friend Daisy because she was promiscuous.

"I don't know if she's ever done anything illegal, but she's fantasized about it. I'm sure she told DeVane what happened to her friend because it excited her, not because she wanted him to back off, and I am certain she knew more about what he was doing than she will ever let on to us. I think the idea of being powerless turns her on, but at the same time, she likes seeing helpless people suffer, almost like that's why they exist, to be mistreated by others. When I showed her the photos of DeVane's victims, she had no interest in the pictures of the adults or of Muriel Faringo as a child when Elliot rescued her before he could hurt her, but the rape kit photos of the child victims captivated her."

"You didn't show her any of Elliot's pictures, did you?" Munch asked as he rejoined the group.

"No way," Huang said, knowing he could never logically explain why he hadn't, but that among these people he wouldn't have to. Changing the subject, he looked at Munch and asked, "Did you find out anything about Daisy Lane?"

Munch smiled smugly, "Oh yeah, I sure did."

_An Ill Wind_

Teddy sighed in relief when she found her wayward patient sitting in the hospital chapel, apparently deep in prayer. She went down the hall to the reception desk and asked the girl there to page an orderly to park a wheelchair outside the chapel, and then she went back to look in on Elliot.

He hadn't moved and if it weren't for the irregular rise and fall of his shoulders and the muffled sounds, she would have thought he was sleeping.

"Elliot," she called softly so as not to startle him.

His shoulders stiffened, and even from the back, she could see him trying to collect himself before he confronted her. Moving slowly down the aisle to give him the time he needed, she crossed in front of him and sat beside him on the front pew.

"A little nervous about tomorrow?" she asked.

He smiled feebly, staring at the crucifix instead of looking at her, but his face betrayed his conflicting emotions all too clearly. "Yeah, I guess," he admitted.

"Well, that's understandable," she said.

For several minutes, they sat there together, alone with their thoughts. Finally, Teddy spoke again.

"Pete Dombrowski is a good doctor, a nice guy," she said, "but the injury to your hand doesn't jive with a typical fist fight, and neither does your behavior. So I tracked him down and asked him to fill me in on what he left out of the file."

He cut her a sideways look, and after a moment, she said, "I know what happened to you, Elliot."

They were silent for a long time, and then he said quietly, "It's ironic, you know, I work in the special victims unit. I deal with this kind of thing all the time."

"No, you don't," Teddy told him gently. "You investigate it, help the DA prosecute it, direct the victims to resources that help them cope with it, but you don't deal with it. It ain't the same."

He turned to face her and a flurry of emotions crossed his face. Finally, he gave a sardonic laugh and said, "No, I guess it's not."

He folded his arms around himself and went back to staring at the crucifix. After a while, he told her, "I've been with SVU for twelve years, almost thirteen, and since this has happened to me, I keep thinking about three of the victims I've worked with."

When he didn't say anything more for quite some time, Teddy encouraged him, "Why don't you tell me about them?"

He sniffled slightly and said, "There was this guy, young, fit, a male stripper, and he claimed he was . . . raped by these three women. I treated him like a piece of crap, like if he were a real man it wouldn't have happened. I told him that if he had wanted, he could have fought them off. My partner believed him, she insisted that a man could be a victim, too.

"We investigated, and it went to court. I testified about the facts in evidence, but I never bought him as a victim. Now, I feel like I owe him an apology."

"So what's stoppin' you?" Teddy asked gently.

Elliot shrugged slightly, "Apologizing means I would have to admit to him that I was wrong."

After a few seconds, Teddy coaxed, "And?"

He looked at her sideways again, then closed his eyes. Tears lurked just beneath his lashes, but he didn't let them fall, and he said, "And . . . that . . . it happened to me, too."

There was another long silence, then Elliot began speaking again.

"The other two were women," he said, and his voice took on a tone of awe. "Women are amazing! Where do they get their strength?"

He turned to Teddy and asked, "Where do you all get the strength to do what you do?"

She frowned, "What do you mean?"

He held the doctor's gaze and explained, "This one girl, a guy broke into her home and assaulted her. She wasn't able to ID him, and he got off. She found out who he was and tracked him down. She was stalking him really, but operating just within the limits of the law. She even called 911 when she saw him breaking into another woman's apartment.

"It kind of pissed me off, what she was doing, because it meant my partner and I had let her down, and nobody likes to be reminded of failure. Still, she was one ballsy lady to go after him herself. I wish I had her courage."

"Was it courage, or obsession?" Teddy asked.

Elliot frowned and said thoughtfully, "I . . . I'm not sure."

"One is healthy," she told him, "the other, hmmm, not so much."

"I suppose not," he agreed.

"So, tell me about the third victim that you've been thinkin' about. What's the story there?"

He fell silent for a while, grew contemplative, shook his head. "It never made sense to me. This woman, she met her rapist after the assault. He didn't recognize her, but she got to know him, and forgave him. She _forgave_ him. She even went to _jail_ to protect him. How did she _do_ that? What kind of a person _does_ that?"

Teddy shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I don't reckon I could have. She must be an extraordinary lady."

Still astounded, he said, "I can't understand how she could forgive him for what he did. How do you forgive someone for doing that to you? For taking _so much_ away from you?"

"Most people don't, Elliot," Teddy said, lightly touching his arm and trying to help him focus his thoughts on the moment again before he started dwelling on what had happened to him. "Most people can't."

"She talked about what happened to her after she was raped," he went on, "how the rape was horrible, the worst thing that had ever happened to her, but the love and compassion she experienced after that were wonderful. Who the hell finds something good coming out of a sexual assault?"

After a few quiet moments, Teddy cleared her throat quietly and asked, "You remember I told you my mama died when I was a kid, right?"

Elliot frowned and nodded, not sure where she was going with the comment.

"My daddy was a worthless drunk 'til I was twelve years old," she continued. "But havin' nine kids and no wife made him sober up and get a job real fast."

"You and your brothers and sisters were lucky that he was strong enough to step up and fulfill his responsibilities," Elliot suggested, wondering where the conversation was headed.

Teddy shook her head. "Luck ain't had nothin' to do with it, Elliot," she said. "I was taught that God always has a plan."

"Are you saying He planned your mother's death?" he asked in horror. "That he planned for me to be assaulted?" His parish priests had always taught that God was just and loving and that bad things that happened to good people were the work of Satan.

"No, but they do say it's an ill wind that blows no good. My four youngest siblin's can't even remember when Daddy was drinkin', and the rest of us eventually learned to forgive him for all the things he screwed up and all the mean things he said when he was drunk. Losin' Mama could have destroyed our family. Daddy coulda stayed a drunk and we'd have gone into foster care, and because there were so many of us kids, we'd have been split up. Instead, Daddy crawled out of the bottle, we older kids learned to look after the young-uns, and we grew closer than we probably ever woulda been had Mama lived. I figure even if God didn't 'plan' my mama's death, He found a way to use it."

"And you're saying He's gonna use what happened to me somehow, too, is that it?"

"I don't know," she confessed, "and as a mortal man, you might not have the vision to recognize the results if he does. What I do know is that the Creator of the Universe is certainly big enough and powerful enough to get you through this if you just have a little faith."

Elliot gave a wry laugh. "Except that I'm not sure if I even believe in Him any more."

"You believe," Teddy smiled. "I'm sure of it."

"What makes you think that?"

"You could have watched TV in your room, called your wife and kids, found a magazine to read in one of the visitors' lounges, or wandered to the rec. room in the rehab ward, but you came here," she told him. "You were lookin' for somethin', and you knew only God could provide it. So, what did you come here to ask Him for?"

After a long silence, Elliot reluctantly answered, "Peace, a sense of safety, the strength to get through this."

"And did He give you that?"

Elliot grew thoughtful again, and then looked at Teddy with a grateful smile. "He sent me you."

_An Ill Wind_

Kathy smiled as she brushed Kathleen's hair and felt her daughter relax. It had taken some gentle persuasion, but she had eventually soothed her distraught second born and coaxed her back into the house with the suggestion that they do something special for just the two of them. Of all the children, Kathleen had always been the most needy. As a middle child herself, Kathy could relate. It was hard to get attention when the oldest did everything first and the youngest was always cuter.

So, they had spent the past hour giving each other manicures and pedicures and looking through a David's Bridal catalog. Kathleen needed a dress for the Christmas ball sponsored by her boyfriend's fraternity. Elliot still hadn't met Jeremy, and Kathy wasn't sure there would be a good time to introduce them before the dance. The Columbia University sophomore was twenty years old, which would upset Elliot, even though he had been friends with Kathleen since the second grade and was really only eighteen months older than their daughter. Nevertheless, Kathy was determined that Kathleen would get to go, and she had been delighted to be asked for her opinion on a suitable gown. The two of them quickly agreed on a strapless, satin, floor-length number with a gossamer shawl in Blue Frost that Elliot would automatically hate but ultimately consent to because, although it would scandalously reveal more flesh than just the hands and face, it was perfectly appropriate for the occasion and actually covered more skin than the typical school uniform.

After ooohing and ahhhing over the pretty dresses, picking out the perfect purse and shoes, and finding the right tuxedo and vest for Jeremy to rent, Kathy felt like Kathleen was ready to talk about what was really bothering her. Meandering slowly through the conversation, she talked about everything except what she really wanted to discuss first. It didn't take long to convince Kathleen that Mrs. Díaz was reasonable and would be sympathetic when Kathy called to explain what had happened to the Alhambra. Kathleen admitted that she would eventually forgive her siblings for destroying her project, 'but not tonight', they had agreed that Kathy didn't always take the twins' side, but that the living room was probably a bad place to be painting it anyway.

"So, do you really want to move back to Grandma's?"

Kathleen didn't answer right away; she just tensed at the question.

If raising four children had taught Kathy anything, it was patience. So, although her first instinct was to jump in and explain all the reasons why going back to Grandma's house was a bad idea, she just waited. She knew how to use silence to provoke a response, and with a smile, realized it was one aspect of her husband's job she understood. Maybe there was a specific problem that could be solved. Maybe Kathleen was feeling the stress of being crowded back into their small house. Maybe she just missed her grandma. Whatever it was, Kathy knew she wouldn't find out until her daughter was ready to talk, so, a few moments after asking her question, she casually inquired, "One French braid, or two?"

"Two," Kathleen said.

Kathy parted her hair and began braiding the left side.

"I think you should leave a few strands loose to frame your face," she said. "You can curl them, maybe tuck one side behind your ear."

"Ok, try it," Kathleen agreed.

After a few minutes of braiding, which Kathy managed to stretch out quite nicely, Kathleen said, "I've missed Daddy and it's nice to be home, but I'm not sure why all of us had to come. It would be easier to go back to Grandma's now that I know he'll be OK than it will after I've hung around here and gotten used to being home for a few weeks. Besides, her house is big enough for us each to have our own room, and I could have worked on my model in the den where the runts wouldn't have smashed it."

"It is an adjustment, but your dad really needs our support right now," Kathy explained, suddenly wondering how much she might have to tell her daughter about the attack to help her understand.

"I know that, Mom," Kathleen said with the exasperated tone only teenagers can manage, "but I've never known him to be so scared before, at least not for himself, and I don't like seeing him this way."

"What do you mean?" Kathy asked as innocently as she could.

"Oh, come on, Mom! You know what I mean! He's always freaking out about what can happen to _us_, but he acts like _he's_ indestructible. At least he did, but now . . . now, he's afraid, and that scares me. What exactly happened to him anyway?"

Kathy swallowed hard and decided that she wasn't going to tell Kathleen everything. She couldn't because the girl was just too immature to handle it.

"Well, you know he was beaten up, right?"

"Yeah, but that's happened before."

"I know, but never this badly," Kathy tried to explain. "He was really hurt this time, Sweetie. It's like you said, he thinks he's indestructible, and finding out he isn't has shaken him up. Also, you know a woman was killed and he was right there but couldn't help, right?"

"Yeah," Kathleen said, her tone implying that she was giving the matter some thought.

"Well, you can see how devastating that would be for a man like your dad who thinks it's his fault anytime someone gets hurt, can't you?"

"So, we're here to help him until he's feeling better, is that it?"

"Exactly," Kathy said, pleased that Kathleen understood.

"Then what?"

Kathy blinked, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"We patch him up, get him back on his feet and then leave again. What good does that do anybody? What happens when he's feeling better? What happens to him when you walk out a second time and take us with you? What happens to us?"

If Kathleen's tone hadn't been so sincere, Kathy would have thought she was trying to pick a fight, but she was really just trying to understand what was happening to her family. She opened her mouth two or three times trying to soft-soap an answer, but Kathleen deserved better than that. Finally, she admitted the truth.

"I haven't thought that far ahead," she confessed. "Your dad needed me, he needed us, and I came to help him and brought all of you with me. At the time, I was only thinking about getting him through that first night, and then the next day, and the weekend, and now his surgery."

"But he needed you when we moved out, too."

She finished braiding Kathleen's hair and tied the ends with elastics. Then she sighed and wrapped her arms around her daughter's shoulders and drew her back into a hug. "I know he did, and I needed him, but neither of us could figure out how to be what the other one . . . needed, and in the meantime, we were only hurting each other. Whatever happens, I can promise you this, you kids will always have two parents who love you, and we will always work together to do what's best for you, even if we can't fix our own problems."

"I know that, Mom," Kathleen said as she pulled out of her mother's embrace, "we all do, and Maureen and I are old enough to understand that being married isn't easy for anyone, and with dad being a cop, it's even harder; but Dickie and Liz don't get that. You and Dad need to figure out what you're going to do, and soon, for their sakes."

"And yours, too maybe?" Kathy suggested with a gentle smile, showing that she thought she really did understand what her daughter was struggling with.

Kathleen shook her head. "I'm old enough to decide where I want to live for myself now, Mom, and the more I think about it, the less I want to go back to Grandma's. I love her to pieces, and I appreciate her letting us stay with her all that time, but it's not home. All of my friends still live in this neighborhood, or if they've moved out, they at least come by to see their parents, and Daddy might need someone to take care of him even after he gets better. _This_ is home, and I want to stay here."

Kathy couldn't be upset with her daughter's words. The truth was, she wanted to stay, too.

Nodding slowly, she agreed, "You are old enough to make your own choices, and I'll support you, whatever they are, just don't make your whole life about your dad and me, ok? At your age, your first priority should be taking care of yourself."

"I know," Kathleen nodded and gave an apologetic smile, "but I think Daddy should know that he can always count on his family. Maybe if he did, he could have called you instead of Olivia when he was in trouble."

This time, Kathleen's words cut her to the soul, but Kathy still couldn't be angry. After all, her daughter was right.

_An Ill Wind_

"Daisy Lane is not a victim of child sexual abuse," Munch said, reading from the notes he had brought back with him from wherever he had gone when the junior detective had pulled him away from the discussion. "It's a home for troubled girls where Annie stayed after she was taken from her mother."

Enjoying the attention of his peers, he stopped there, keeping them in suspense as long as he could. Finally, Huang asked, "How did Annie wind up there and why?"

"Apparently, Mama O'Keefe caught twelve-year-old Annie playing doctor with a fourteen-year-old neighbor," John continued. "He had her tied down and was doing a pelvic exam with his penis when she walked in on them."

"So, he raped her," Fin summarized. "That doesn't explain why she was removed from her home."

"The local PD determined that it wasn't rape," Munch said, peering over his glasses at each of his colleagues in turn. "According to the boy it was Annie's idea."

"What twelve year old is going to have a boy tie her down and penetrate her?" Cragen asked, his tone a combination of confusion and disgust.

"One who grew up watching her mother let strangers do it all the time," Munch responded.

"Deirdre O'Keefe supplemented her factory worker's income by prostituting herself to local men with kinky desires that the other town whores wouldn't indulge," he explained. "She was never arrested because she didn't solicit customers. They knew her as 'Dee Dee Does Anything,' and instead of negotiating a price, they would give her gifts, nice clothes, appliances, electronics, toys and clothes for her daughter."

"If they couldn't arrest her, how did social services manage to take Annie away?" Cragen asked.

"Deirdre hadn't ever been a particularly attentive mother," John said. "More than once the school threatened to take legal action to compel her to get Annie basic things like winter clothing, medical care, and eyeglasses, but once she caught her daughter with that boy, she barely gave Annie a moment's peace. She had a favorite belt she liked to beat her with."

Huang nodded. "That explains a lot," he said. "The simultaneous shame and indifference to what others might think of her, the way she tried to blame her mother for her aberrant behavior."

"Mama O'Keefe was probably responsible for most of it," Munch said. "They finally put Annie into foster care and moved her to Daisy Lane when she was fourteen, after the gym teacher noticed an infected cut on her stomach when her shirt rode up during a game of volleyball. She sent Annie to the school nurse, and after some coaxing, the woman got her to take off her blouse and found welts covering her breasts and abdomen."

Cragen turned to face Huang. "Just like DeVane's victims. What does that mean?"

Huang frowned. "I don't know," he said, "but I've got some ideas, and they all mean Annie was more involved than she's been letting on. I don't think talking to her right now will help me figure it out, though. She knows we have nothing on her, and she's been lying and manipulating us from the start. I need to talk to Roger DeVane."

Cragen nodded. "As do we all, Doc. When we catch him, you'll get your chance."

"Hey, Fin," Olivia interrupted their conversation by angrily calling down from the lounge on the second level of their squad room, "Why the hell didn't you tell me Barnard College ran the writing workshop at the Saturday School?"

"Didn't seem relevant to me," he called up to her, the irritation in his voice matching hers. "Why the hell didn't you ask?"

"If you had read my notes you would know Annie O'Keefe got her degree from Barnard. A B.S. in British Literature," Liv told him, oblivious to the sudden quiet in the squad room as the night shift detectives stopped their work to listen to the sniping.

"It would be nothing for her to go right from there to the MFA program in creative writing," she continued. "Most colleges give their own alumni preferential treatment when it comes to enrolling in grad school. You should have known that, and you should have asked Mrs. Fontaine about it when you interviewed her."

"It's not like I have a hell of a lot of time to be reading about ancient history when I'm working on a current case!" Fin snapped.

"We have the same perp committing the same crimes against the same victims," Liv called down furiously. "Any idiot should be able to see that the old cases are hardly ancient history!"

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"No, but if you wanna take it personally, be my guest!"

"That's enough, you two!" Cragen roared.

The detectives glared at each other for a moment, the intensity of their looks heating up the room a couple of degrees. Then Liv softened her gaze and shifted it to Cragen.

"Captain, we can't go on like this. This case is a hell of a lot bigger than what happened to Elliot now and if we don't all pull together . . ."

"Yeah," Fin agreed, "as long as we keep things compartmentalized, there is no way of knowing what we'll miss and we could lose DeVane because of it."

Don sighed heavily and frowned. He knew Elliot would sooner have her off the case altogether, but dammit, they needed her insight. He also knew that Elliot would just as soon not have anyone know what had happened to him, but that couldn't be helped. As long as she never read his statement, he figured he'd be able to smooth it over with Stabler.

"All right, Benson, get your ass down here," he called upstairs. Looking around at the detectives working the night shift, he said, "Show's over people! Back to work. Catch some bad guys or something."

As Liv walked past him to take her place in the group, she muttered to Fin, "Sorry about that."

"You don't need to apologize to me," he assured her. "We're all stressed out. It happens."

_An Ill Wind_

Elliot settled into his bed with a sigh, and looked up at Teddy with a grateful smile. Once she had given him her little pep talk, she'd wrapped both of her hands around his good one and bowed her head. He'd followed suit, and the two of them had sat there together, each of them praying silently. They'd finished at exactly the same time, and without a word between them, she'd helped him out of the chapel and into a waiting wheelchair.

"How you feelin'?" she asked as she pulled the covers up and tucked them around him.

He closed his eyes briefly to take stock and had the oddest sensation that he was at a moment of decision. He knew he could easily dissolve into tears at any moment, he was just that tired, frightened, and depressed; or he could let it go and try to sleep.

Looking up at his doctor, he licked his dry lips and said, "Not real good, but I'll be all right."

"Would you like me to sit with you until you fall asleep?" Teddy asked.

It was a thoughtful gesture and her kindness warmed him. He didn't think she would offer if she wasn't willing to follow through, and she had a comforting presence. He was so tired, but his mind was still restless. Maybe with her there, he could find the peace he needed to sleep.

"You wouldn't mind?"

She smiled at him. "Not at all."

He nodded.

"Ok, then." She crossed the room and turned out the main light, then she returned and lowered the bed so he was lying down. "You just relax. I'm gonna sit here and wait until you fall asleep. I'll make sure no one disturbs you. You just rest."

Pulling a chair up close to the bed, she took his good hand in hers and gently stroked the back of it with her thumb as she continued talking to him softly. She kept her voice low, and something about that country twang made it so soothing. In short order, her words became just a distant murmur, and then he knew no more.

* * *

Please review. 


	14. Jitters

_**Chapter Fourteen  
Jitters**_

OOO

_Room 417  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
4:43 A.M., November 22, 2005_

"I said no! Now go away."

It was faint, but Kathy immediately recognized her husband's voice. She glanced at the children and could tell that Maureen was the only one who had heard it. Kathleen and the twins were still too sleepy to notice much of anything.

As she passed a visitor's lounge, she guided her three youngest children into it. "You three wait here. Maureen, come with me."

"No fair!" Dickie complained. "Why does she get to go with you?"

"Because she is the oldest and I said so," Kathy insisted. "Now you stay here and don't leave this room. You all better be sitting on that couch when I get back. If one of you is missing, you're all getting grounded, is that clear?"

She left without getting an answer, Maureen trailing a step behind her.

"What do you think is wrong?" Maureen asked as she speeded up to keep pace with her mother.

"We'll find out when we get in there."

"Please, just leave me alone," Elliot's voice carried down the hall.

"He sounds scared," Maureen commented.

Kathy didn't respond. They were just a few steps from Elliot's room, and when they got there, rather than knocking, Kathy just pushed through the door.

"Mr. Stabler, if you don't calm down, I will call in an orderly to restrain you," said a rotund little woman in a white uniform. "I just want to start an IV so the anesthesiologist can give you your meds when they take you into the OR. It's only saline."

"Kathy, please I can't do this today. Please don't make me do this. I want to go home." Elliot was trembling and near tears, cowering away from the IV nurse.

Kathy crossed the room to stand between him and the woman with the needle. She put her arms around her husband and said, "It's all right, Baby, you don't have to. I won't make you. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"Mrs. Stabler, thank goodness you're here. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"What's your name, please?" Kathy asked in an overly cordial tone that told Maureen she was mad as hell.

"Mimi."

"Well, Mimi, I do believe my husband asked you to go away. Now I am asking you to stay away," she said as she continued to gently rub her husband's back. "As a matter of fact, on your way out, tell the person who coordinates all of this that, when he does decide to go through with the surgery, he'll need someone else to start the IV."

"But he signed a consent form," Mimi said.

"I don't care _what_ he signed," Kathy said forcefully, "and I don't care if we have to go find a new surgeon at a different hospital, you won't be treating him again. Now _leave._"

"Well, we'll just have to see what Doctor Wells has to say about all this," Mimi muttered as she waddled away in a huff.

"You do that," Kathy said as Maureen held the door for her, "and while you're at it, have her sign his discharge papers. He'll be going home."

"Go, Mom!" Maureen softly exclaimed in admiration, but Kathy didn't seem to hear her. She was already busy fussing over her frightened husband.

"I'm sorry, Kathy, I'm sorry," Elliot murmured in a small voice.

"It's ok, Baby," Kathy assured him. "It's ok. You don't have to apologize."

For several minutes, Maureen stood in the corner feeling useless as her mother gently coaxed her father back from the brink of tears.

Finally, in a steadier voice, he said, "I'm sorry about that. I just got so scared."

"Elliot, you were scared about surgery," Kathy told him. "That's normal."

He nodded, grateful for her acceptance. "Can you take me home now?" he asked hopefully.

Smiling ruefully, Kathy said, "That's going to be a bit of a problem. Kathleen and the twins are here."

"I thought your mom was going to come over and stay with them," Elliot frowned.

"That was the plan," Kathy agreed, "but when I got up this morning, they were already dressed and waiting for me. I couldn't tell them no."

"So, what are we going to do?" he asked.

"Well, if you can hang in there long enough to see them, I can bring them in here, let them say good morning, and then leave Maureen with you while I take them to Mom's. We'll let them go through the day thinking everything is going as planned. By the time I get back, you should be signed out and ready to go."

"That will work for now," Maureen told her mom, "but what are you going to tell them when they get home from school and he still hasn't had the surgery."

"I don't know, but I'm sure I'll think of something by three o'clock."

"But, Mom, you're planning to lie to them!" Maureen gasped in shock.

Kathy gave her husband another kiss on the forehead and a reassuring squeeze on the arm. Then she crossed the room, took her daughter by the elbow and led her out into the hall.

"Maureen, I hope to God you never have to face anything like this. If you do, maybe you will handle it better, but don't judge me now. Your brother and sisters take their cue from your dad and me, and now you. They already know we're worried, or they wouldn't have been up at four in the morning to come with us. If they find out he's too afraid to go through with the surgery, they're going to be frightened, too."

"Mom, some things in life are just scary," Maureen reminded her.

"I know, and as their parent, it's my job to protect them from those things for as long as I can. If you hadn't heard him yelling, I would have put you in the lounge with the others. Believe me, Maureen, I don't like lying to my kids, but the earth could be falling into the sun, and I would tell you all it was going to be ok until the planet burst into flames because it's my job to make you feel safe and protected.

"Now, I can't do anything to keep you from telling them what you saw in there, but I am asking you to help me out with this. If you think about how you felt to see your father so upset, maybe you'll decide not to put your little sisters and brother through that."

Kathy pressed her lips together nervously and prayed her daughter would make the right decision.

After a moment of hesitation, the young woman answered, "Ok, Mom, I'll play along, but if they catch you in a lie, how are they ever going to trust you again?"

"You never caught me," Kathy told her.

Maureen's jaw dropped in shock for a moment. The tone her mother had used suggested that it happened a little more often than she might have imagined. Then her eyes lit with comprehension. She had always felt safe growing up because her parents didn't lay their troubles on her.

Nodding, she said, "Ok, I think I get it. You can count on me, Mom."

Kissing her daughter on the cheek, Kathy said, "Thank you, Sweetie. I knew you would understand. Now go get your brother and sisters, but take your time about it. I need a minute to get your dad ready for them."

Maureen nodded, and began to walk slowly down the hall. If they asked what had taken so long, she would tell them their dad had to change out of his pj's and into the hospital gown.

_An Ill Wind_

There was a soft knock at the door and Elliot called, "Come in." When he saw who it was, his stomach did a flip-flop and his heart was in his throat.

"Hi," Doctor Wells said with a smile and a tone that indicated that she was genuinely pleased to see him and that she didn't mind at all that he was totally mucking up her day and it wasn't even six o'clock yet. "I understand that you are havin' some second thoughts about the surgery." She crossed the room and glanced at his chart.

Elliot shifted nervously, winced at the pain from his ribs, and said, "Yeah."

"Ok, that's all right," Teddy told him and smiled again as she came to stand beside his bed.

Maureen moved closer and took her dad's hand, and somehow, that gave Elliot the courage to elaborate.

"I know it needs to be done," he admitted, "but I just don't think I can go through with it today."

"That's fine, Elliot," the doctor assured him. "I told you yesterday that it doesn't have to be done right away. As long as you are comfortable with your decision, I'm good with it. I'll let you know when it becomes urgent." Acutely aware that her patient needed himself and his fears to stop being the focus of the discussion, she looked to the young woman at his bedside.

"I can tell by the resemblance that you are either the big sister of the three I met yesterday evenin' or you're this guy's baby sister." She smiled and indicated Elliot with a tilt of her head so he could remain part of the conversation if he wished.

"Maureen's my oldest," he said proudly. "She was parking the car last night when you came by. She's a . . . junior?" He looked to his daughter and when she nodded, he finished his thought, "A junior at Hudson. Maureen, this is Doctor Wells. She's going to fix my hand, uh, sometime soon."

"Teddy, short for Theodora," the doctor said, extending her hand for Maureen to shake. "Hudson is a good school. What's your major?"

"Psychology," Maureen replied and looked at her father defiantly, "not that anyone else I know shares any enthusiasm for it."

Elliot shrugged and rolled his eyes slightly. "Your mother and I just want you to be happy," he said, and then muttered, "and get a job."

Maureen sighed and addressed the doctor. "There are several careers that interest me," she said, "I just haven't been able to choose a direction yet."

"Oh? What are you considerin'," Teddy asked, sounding genuinely curious about the young woman's plans.

"Well, I think I would make a good school psychologist," she said. "I have had lots of practice dealing with my sisters and brother, and I've thought about going on for a Master's degree in social work, if I can find a grant or a fellowship or something. In the next couple of weeks, I should find out whether I've been accepted for an internship with Victim Services in Queens."

Looking at his daughter in surprise, Elliot said, "You never mentioned that. You should have told me, I could have put in a good word for you."

"I know, Daddy," Maureen said with a grateful look, "but I wanted to see if I could get it on my own. I mean, if they only want me because you're my dad, I don't really deserve the job, do I?"

Teddy laughed at Elliot's confusion and said, "I've heard tell that's what they do when they grow up. They get all independent on you."

Turning back to Maureen, she said, "If you can get a paycheck for it, there's nothin' wrong with doin' several internships until you find somethin' you really love. I tried psychiatry, neurology, sports medicine, and vascular surgery before I finally settled on orthopedics."

Maureen nodded at the new idea. "I hadn't thought of that," she said. "I suppose after graduation I could intern at Child Protective Services before I borrowed money for a masters."

"Now _that's_ an idea," Elliot said, though it wasn't clear whether his enthusiasm was for Maureen's career exploration or the potential money saved.

"You know, we have a hospital social worker I could introduce you to," Teddy suggested. "CPS isn't the only place you can use a social work degree."

"Or a psych degree," Elliot volunteered.

Both women shot him a look. Maureen's was slightly annoyed, and Teddy's was slightly amused.

"You would do that?" Maureen asked sounding interested in the opportunity. "I'd really appreciate it."

"Ok," Teddy nodded thoughtfully, "Let's say the next time your dad comes in for an appointment, I set you up for a meetin' with Andy."

"That would be great," Maureen said enthusiastically. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," Teddy said and then continued a little reluctantly, "Now, as a promisin' psych student, I am sure you understand why I need to speak to your dad privately." Teddy cocked an eyebrow and gave a small, sheepish smile that said, _Yeah, you caught me, and I've been workin' up to this since I walked in._

Maureen frowned. "I promised my mom I wouldn't leave him alone. She's taking my sisters and brother to our grandma's so they can get some more sleep before going off to school."

"Maureen, I can understand your need to be close to him right now, and his need to have you nearby," Teddy said gently, "and I promise you I won't try to talk him into anythin' he doesn't want, but I really do need to have a private conversation with your dad."

The young woman chewed at her bottom lip for a minute, trying to make the decision on her own, but in the end, she had to glance at her dad. Elliot jerked his head slightly in the direction of the door and said softly, "Go ahead, it's ok."

"You're sure?" she asked, taking hold of his hand again.

He looked at Teddy, appreciating the effort she had made to put them both at ease and said, "Yeah, Sweetheart, I'll be fine."

"Ok," Maureen said reluctantly, "but I'll be right outside if you need me."

"All right, Baby Girl, you go on," he told her.

She squeezed his hand gently, gave him a kiss on the cheek, whispered, "I love you, Daddy," and walked out.

"Do you mind if I check your blood pressure?" Teddy asked. "I noticed on your chart it was awfully high the last time the nurse was in here, and I'm not comfortable sendin' you home in that condition."

"Knock yourself out," Elliot said, extending his arm for her, "but don't think you're going to work your way up to getting me into the operating room."

"She's a lovely girl," the doctor said, ignoring his comment as she retrieved the blood pressure cuff from its place tucked into a cubby on the wall behind the bed. "You must be very proud of her."

Elliot tried to be humble, but he couldn't help smiling. "Ahh, her mother and I got lucky," was all he said.

Teddy shook her head. "No, luck doesn't account for that kind of love and dedication," she said, "and it doesn't get a kid into Hudson."

Elliot fell silent as he felt the cold end of the stethoscope press against the sensitive flesh on the inside of his elbow, and the cuff inflated until it was tight around his arm.

"Ok," Teddy said, "that's a little better, but I want it even lower before you head home. You need to relax."

She put the cuff back in its cubby and stuffed the stethoscope into her pocket. "Mind if I sit?"

Elliot waved in the direction of the chair beside his bed to indicate that she was welcome to it. When she slumped into the seat, he guessed that she had started slouching as a kid to make herself look smaller, but with her long legs stretched out across the floor in front of her, crossed at the ankles instead of the knee, she just looked gangly. She had large, capable, mannish hands, bony elbows, and the almost emaciated look of a dedicated distance runner. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes spoke of a lot of time outdoors squinting against the wind and the sun.

Resting her elbows on the arms of the chair and folding her hands loosely across her flat stomach, she looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments and then requested, "Close your eyes for me?"

"What?"

"You need to relax," she reiterated. "I know deep breaths aren't really possible with your busted ribs, but if you close your eyes and take slow, shallow breaths for a few minutes, you can achieve the same results. So, close your eyes for me."

When he looked at her dubiously, she smiled and told him, "I promise I won't do anythin' without your permission, so just close your eyes and relax for a bit."

He hesitated a moment longer, but she had an open, guileless expression on her face, and finally, even with his suspicious mind, he couldn't come up with a logical reason to mistrust her. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe slowly and as deeply as he could without pain. After a minute or so, his chin dropped to his chest and he could feel his muscles relaxing. Until then, he hadn't realized how tense he had been.

"You still with me?" The gentle voice broke the silence.

"Yeah."

"Would it be all right if I checked your pulse?"

He pressed his lips together into a tight line, not sure where she was going with this, but not seeing any reason to say no.

"You can say no," she told him, and that took away his last reason to refuse. Where there was no pressure, there was nothing to resist.

"It's all right. You can if you want."

He felt her hand grip his wrist, the touch warm and dry, and after several moments, she said "Eighty-six. That's a little fast for a guy who has just been lyin' around all mornin'."

As she turned his hand back over to rest on the blanket, she patted it lightly and covered it with her own. Her skin was warm and a little rough. Her thumb rubbed gently across the back of his wrist.

"Do you like to go to the beach, Elliot?" she asked and a low, soothing voice.

"I go every once in a while with my kids," he told her. "A few years ago, it kind of lost its charm for a while, though. I was coming home with Maureen one evening and we saw a couple of uniformed officers trying to put out a fire. Turns out it was a body. Some teenage kid had murdered the man who had been molesting him since he was eight and then set his genitals on fire. I told Maureen to stay in the car, but she didn't listen. She's always been headstrong. She saw it all. Gave her nightmares for weeks."

He still had his eyes closed, so he didn't see Teddy's expression of horror when her simple question led to a distressing story about his work or her apparent relief when she realized that the memory didn't upset him. He did hear the smile and the enthusiasm in her voice, though, when she began to talk about the ocean.

"I _love_ the sea," she said. "I'm there every free minute of every day, rain or shine, winter or summer. I run on the beach, and I have a little sailboat I take out at least once a week."

"That's why you're so tanned, then," he said.

She laughed slightly, "That's a kind word for it. I look in the mirror, I don't see 'tanned', I see 'weathered', but it's worth it. I grew up in a bankrupt bituminous coal minin' town in southwestern Pennsylvania, but the nearest post office was in West Virginia, so that was our mailin' address. I didn't see the ocean until I was twenty-one, and I fell in love with it. The first time I saw all that water, goin' all the way to forever, I knew why sailors had to be brave, and why a life at sea is always so romantic in literature."

"Hmm," Elliot grunted, his eyes still closed. "I've lived almost my whole life in Queens. Except for a few years in the Marines, I have never really been anywhere else. The beach, the water, it's always been right there, and I might go a few times a year."

"Funny, isn't it, how we never seem to appreciate the things that are underfoot?" He nodded thoughtfully in response to her question, and she continued. "So, what are you passionate about?"

"My kids," he replied without hesitation, grinning broadly. "They are absolutely the best part of my life."

"You know, your whole face just lit up?"

He blushed slightly, and Teddy said, "Don't be embarrassed. I admire anyone who's willin' to take on that responsibility. It's not for me. I love children, but I figured I was done raisin' my family by the time I left home for college. Tell me about them."

He couldn't resist another smile and he didn't notice the change in his voice, but as he spoke about his children, his love for them completely filled him and changed his whole demeanor. Teddy had to grin, too, as she watched him relax completely and glow with happiness and pride.

"Maureen is my oldest, and she's the most like me. I try not to play favorites, but she is her daddy's girl all over and I can't help feeling like I understand her more than I do the others. She's always been so grown up in some ways. Like one time, when we were chasing a pedophile who met his victims through the internet, I started reading her e-mail and put a child lock on the computer. Man, she was pissed off because she thought I didn't trust her, but when I was able to explain that I was acting out of fear of what other people might do if they could get to her through the computer, she instantly forgave me. Her mother doesn't even get me that well."

"Maybe that's why she's interested in psychology and social work," Teddy suggested. "She might feel the same impulse to help people that you do."

Elliot nodded. "That could be," he agreed. "I just hope she knows where to draw the line. Working with people who are suffering can eat you alive, if you let it."

Teddy recognized the voice of experience when she heard it, but she chose not to comment. She was trying to calm her patient, and letting him talk about how being consumed by his work had messed up his life wouldn't help.

"I'm sure if you share the benefit of your experience with her she'll be ok. Tell me about your other kids. The youngest two are twins, right?"

"Lizzie and Dickie, yeah, though I'm sure when he gets interested in dating he'll want to be called Rick or Rich or something manly like that," Elliot said with a proud grin.

"You're looking forward to that, aren't you?"

Elliot shrugged, then winced as his injuries reminded him of their presence, and said, "I guess every father looks forward to his son becoming a man."

"I'm sure they do," Teddy agreed. "What are they like, your twins?"

"Lizzie's always been a little tomboy," Elliot said. "Growing up alongside Dickie, she's always wanted to do whatever he was doing. Kathy and I let her, because it gave him someone to play with, and when he wanted to play Barbies with his sisters, we let him do that. But now, she's starting to mature, and Kathleen and Maureen are introducing her to girlie things like make up and shoes, which is great for her but kind of leaves Dickie out in the cold."

"How is he handlin' that?" Teddy asked.

"Well, for a while there, he was spending way too much time, whole weekends, sometimes, watching TV and playing video games. He was actually starting to get kind of pudgy from the inactivity."

"Oh, so what did you do?"

"Kathy mentioned it to his pediatrician. Dr. Reynolds is a good guy, so at his next physical, he talked it over with Dickie, man to man, and they agreed that he should get involved in some sport and not play video games or watch TV more than an hour or two a day. Kathy and I never came up in the conversation except to make sure we could arrange transportation for him after practice. It really worked out well because he got the message, but hearing it from the doctor made it a professional opinion instead of some kind of rejection from his parents."

"See, that's why I never would have made a good parent," Teddy explained. "I'd have just told him he was gettin' fat and hurt his little feelin's. I never would have thought to be sneaky like that."

"Uh-huh," Elliot said, though he didn't sound convinced. "You have to be careful about the messages you send. Sometimes, when you're saying you're worried, they hear you're disapproving. It can be tricky."

"You seem to have managed pretty well with them."

"I guess so," Elliot conceded halfheartedly, "but my second daughter, Kathleen, I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed, sounding more than a little frustrated. "She's artistic, and I'm not. She's sensitive, and I'm not. We just don't seem to connect."

"Does she know you love her?" Teddy asked.

"Yeah, I make sure I tell her every time I get the chance," he said.

"And she knows she can come to you when she's in trouble, doesn't she?"

"Yeah," he agreed, frowning as he remembered getting a couple of uniformed officers to drop charges when she was busted on a DUI.

"Then maybe that's the best you can do for now," Teddy suggested. "I was valedictorian of my graduatin' class, and my second brother, Eddy, dropped out in the tenth grade. We had no common ground, and I gave him six different kinds of hell about quittin' school, but he turned out all right."

"Teddy and Eddy?" Elliot inquired, amused.

"Yeah, and Carol and Darryl, Ann and Dan, Will and Jill, don't ask me _what_ my parents were thinkin'."

Laughing, Elliot said, "At least they didn't give you all the same initials."

"Or the same first name, like George Foreman did to his kids," Teddy agreed. "But you know, when Eddy and his wife had their first baby, they asked me to be his godmother, and they gave him the middle name Theodore in my honor. I was flabbergasted."

"All you can do is love them and hope for the best, huh?"

"I suppose so," Teddy agreed. "The hardest thing is never knowin' what impact you might have. I was so sure he needed a high school diploma that I got Daddy to tell him he had to stay in school until he got it if he wanted to live at home. I was devastated when he packed his stuff and moved to Pittsburgh."

"Oh, man," Elliot sympathized, "that had to be rough."

"It was. He struggled for a while, financially and personally. I felt so bad that I took the bus to Pittsburgh one weekend and asked him to come home."

Teddy's tone changed to one of puzzlement when she continued, "He thanked me for comin' to see him, for carin' enough to tell him I'd made a mistake, and then he refused to come back with me. Said he figured I was right. He got his GED, took some mechanics classes, not that he needed them to teach him anythin' but he needed the certificate to earn a livin', and got a job as a shop mechanic in some factory. Now he's the maintenance supervisor, makin' a good salary, has a nice little house in the suburbs. And I was so sure he was screwin' up his life."

"So, you're telling me Kathleen will turn out all right?"

"I'm tellin' you all you can do is love them and hope for the best."

Elliot felt her fingers slip round his wrist again and check his pulse.

"Sixty three," she said. "That's a lot better."

Again, she left her hand resting on his. The human contact was comforting, so he didn't object.

"You've never been under general anesthesia, have you?" she asked casually after an extended silence.

And now they were there, at the conversation he had hoped to avoid at all costs. His eyes popped open as, with a sudden clarity, he realized just how brilliant she really was. He felt his heart rate soaring, the blood pounded in his head, and he couldn't help but become defensive.

"Oh, lady, you're good," he said in an angry tone as he pulled his hand away from hers, "You're very good. You would have made one hell of a detective."

Frowning in confusion, she said, "I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean."

"Acting like this operation is no big deal and then spending all that time chatting up my daughter and me. I've done the same kind of thing a thousand times," he told her accusingly. "It's not gonna work on me! I'm sorry you wasted your morning, but I am _not_ having this surgery today." He winced, his outburst having caused his ribs to remind him that they needed time to heal.

Teddy shook her head and said, "I'm sorry if you're confused, but I'm not tryin' to make you . . ."

"Oh, come on, Doc!" Elliot interrupted in disbelief. "What was all that about if not to lull me into a false sense of security so you could come back and browbeat me into letting you operate. If you're not gonna tell me about all the people waiting on me in the OR and all the money already spent preparing everything, then why waste all that time talking to Maureen?"

Teddy shrugged, turning her palms up as if to show she was hiding nothing up her sleeves. "Because I'm a sociable creature who likes talkin' to people," she suggested. "Because if you're not gonna have the surgery, I have nothin' better to do until lunch. Because I remember what it was like to be that age and have the whole world to explore. Hell, I don't know why I wanted to talk to her, maybe just because she's a nice kid!"

She sat up in her chair and then leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and interlacing her fingers.

"I did it because having _her_ trust me to take good care of you is as important to me as having _you_ trust me to take good care of you."

Elliot met her intense gaze for just a moment, and then he looked away and frowned.

"Why did you want to talk about my other kids, then, if you weren't playing me?"

Sighing, Teddy said, "Because I can tell you're under a lot of stress, and I wanted to calm you down before I sent you home."

She watched him closely for a minute as he sat there and sulked. He didn't seem especially upset, just annoyed, and very uncertain. Sensing that he was looking for a reason to either trust her or send her away, she made up her mind to give him a good reason to trust her.

"Elliot, look at me," she commanded gently. When he didn't respond, she added urgently, "Please."

Leaning forward and meeting his burning gaze with a sincere, open expression, she said, "Believe me when I tell you I _do_ understand what you are goin' through. Doctor Dombrowski knows that, and it's why he consulted me about your hand."

She could tell the moment he understood what she was saying because he blinked and the glower was replaced by a compassionate expression.

"Did they get the guy who did it?"

She leaned back and shrugged. "Yes and no. You're not quite old enough to really know what it was like to prosecute . . . that kind of thing thirty-five years ago, especially in rural areas, but you've probably dealt with people who still have that same sort of mentality.

"He was the captain of the boys' basketball team, the only guy in school who was tall enough to go out with me without lookin' like one of the seven dwarves, except for my own kinfolk, that is. Nowadays, they would call it a date rape. He didn't leave any marks, so it would have been strictly he-said-she-said, and given our relative social positions, folks would have been more likely to believe what he said.

"I told my aunty, she told my daddy, and he beat the livin' hell out of the boy. He missed most of his senior basketball season, which probably cost him a couple of scholarships because he was good, and his family declined to prosecute Daddy because that would mean makin' the rumors about what he did a matter of public record. I was smart enough to realize that was more justice than I could have expected from the courts, and that was the end of it."

She waited several moments to see if Elliot wanted to say anything. When he just dropped his gaze and started playing with the wrinkles in the sheet, she continued.

"I'm not goin' to try to coerce you into havin' this surgery when you're not ready. We have several days before we need to worry about the delay compromisin' your recovery. Until then, I think it's more important for you to just trust me."

This time, she waited for a response. After a minute or so, he seemed to just relax all at once, sighing quietly and slumping slightly. "What do you want from me?" he asked.

"Tell me what you're afraid of," she said gently.

"It's so hard to talk about," he told her, "I don't know if I can."

"I know," she assured him, "but if you can articulate your fears for me, I promise I will do whatever I can to make things easier for you."

She waited quietly for several moments before he answered.

"You're so helpless," he said. "I can't take the thought of being so helpless."

There was another long pause and then he continued, "I couldn't do anything to save myself when I was attacked. He incapacitated me and tied me up, but, worse than that, someone else was counting on me, and I couldn't save her."

He fell silent again. Teddy didn't say a word, but she did place her hand over his again. He looked down, and was oddly comforted to see that her strong, capable hands were slightly larger, if a bit more slender, than his own. He looked up at her and saw nothing but compassion in her eyes. Then he looked away again, his emotions too intense to talk about if he had to watch her reaction to them.

"Anybody can do anything they want to you when you're out like that," he explained in a near whisper. "I'm not ready to make myself that vulnerable, not again."

Gently, she took his hand in both of hers. "Knowin' you're in a hospital where no one is gonna hurt you isn't enough, is it?"

He shook his head, not able to speak.

"That's because knowin' somethin' in your head and feelin' it in your heart are two completely different things."

He nodded, understanding what she was saying.

"Elliot," she said softly and waited until he would look at her again. "I promise I won't let anythin' happen to you," she said. Then she asked, "Would it help if I stayed with you from here until you woke up in your own room after the surgery?"

"You'd do that for me?" he asked in surprise.

"Sure, if that's what you need."

"You wouldn't leave me alone when I unconscious after the operation?"

"Not if you want me to stay," she assured him.

Then she waited in silence. Elliot had to make this decision for himself, without any pressure from her.

"Is it too late to get this over with today?" he asked, finally feeling the courage of one who knows he has friends behind him.

"Let me check your pressure first."

There were a few quiet minutes between them while she took her readings. Then she made a note on his chart saying, "Those are the numbers I like to see."

She returned the equipment and the chart and told him, "I'm gonna to send your daughter back in, call my team back to the OR, and speak to your wife when she returns. Then I'll be back here to walk you through it, start to finish. Ok?"

He nodded and gave her a grin that was partly amused and partly sarcastic, but mostly grateful. "You're better than I thought," he said. "You definitely should have been a cop."

Teddy winked at him and said, "I _really_ have no idea what you mean."

* * *

**Author's Note: **It's a little late to say Happy Valentine' Day, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Please, send me a late Valentine and drop me a short review. Thanks! 


	15. Consolidation

_**An Ill Wind  
Chapter Fifteen**_

_**Consolidation**_

OOO

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
9:02 A.M., November 22, 2005_

"I just got a call from Kathy Stabler," Don Cragen said before the meeting began. "Elliot's surgery went fine. He should be home again tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. With some physical therapy after he gets out of the cast, the doctor expects a complete recovery."

There was a collective sigh of relief and then he got them back to business with the question, "What have we learned?"

After Fin and Olivia's tiff the previous evening, he had sent them all home with an admonishment to get some real rest. They were then instructed to report to the squad room at eight a.m. to review all of the notes on the case in preparation for another discussion at nine.

"We were damned lucky," Fin said.

"How's that?" Cragen asked, wondering what could possibly be lucky about this case.

"So far, the only thing we seem to have missed that matters is the Barnard College connection to the writing workshop," Munch explained.

"And that did matter," Olivia interjected.

"How?"

Olivia gestured to Fin. He had done the work, so it was his part of the story to tell.

"I called Mrs. Fontaine," he said. "Annie O'Keefe entered the name and address information on a spreadsheet for her to use in making the name badges. It would have been nothing for her to copy it onto a disk for herself."

"So, what do we want to do?" Don asked.

"Well, now we know she was lying when she told me she didn't know any of the girls from twelve years ago," Huang said.

"Yeah, or she just forgot. After all, it was only the one day and then the building burned down," Munch said. When he got scowls and surprised looks all around he said in a slightly whiny, defensive voice, "Hey, I didn't say I believed it, but it's an argument her lawyer will use."

"We could pick her up for obstruction," Fin suggested. "Now we've got her in two lies, this one, and that BS about Daisy Lane."

"But what good would that do?" Liv asked. "She'll just keep trying to play us and manipulate us like she's been doing all along."

"It would make me feel better to put her ass in the cage for a while," Fin groused.

"But Olivia's right, it won't help us," Huang said. "I say we hold off until we catch DeVane or run out of leads. Then we'll have a reason to compel her to come in and talk to us. Maybe, when we have both of them, we can figure out just how deeply she was involved in what was happening twelve years ago."

"And put her ass in jail where it belongs," Fin added.

"And in the meantime, I think she enjoyed yanking Huang's chain enough that she'll come in again if we ask her nicely," Olivia reminded them all. Turning to the doctor, she continued, "After all, she gave you a private number where you can call her, right?"

George nodded, and opening his folder, said, "I checked it out with the phone company. It's a separate line to her home. Probably goes to her private study or her boudoir or something like that."

"Boudoir?" Fin mocked his choice of words.

Folding his arms across his chest, Munch peered at his partner. "We'll forgive you because of your academically deprived background," he taunted good naturedly, "but in that neighborhood, women do not have bedrooms."

"What's the difference?" Fin queried.

"Bedrooms are just for sleeping," John explained. "A boudoir is a place for entertaining that sometimes happens to have a bed."

"Oh, ok," Fin nodded his understanding, "like a ho' house."

"All right, can we get back to the case?" Cragen asked, sharing a smirk with Fin before Munch could respond. When everyone was attentive again, he continued, "So, we have a consensus, don't we? We try to wait until we have DeVane to bust Annie, and if we need to speak to her again before that, Huang calls her on her private line?"

"In her boudoir," Munch said with a mischievous smirk.

"Right. Her boudoir," Fin agreed.

Getting nods of agreement from Olivia and Huang, Don continued with a quirk of a smile. It was his turn to pick on someone. "Fin, what have we heard from your sex shop?"

Eyeing his captain warily, Fin said, "I told you last night it isn't _my_ sex shop. Munch has been taking care of that."

John winked at the captain, letting Fin know for sure that his superior had been deliberately baiting him. Then clearing his throat, the tall detective shared his information with them.

"Mistress' name is actually Eunice Peebles," he began.

Olivia barely managed to stifle a laugh and said, "I can see why she prefers Mistress."

"Yeah, I know," Munch agreed. "Anyway, she's a surprisingly fit fifty-eight years old, and she's had her own business of one kind or another for the past thirty years, all strictly legit. In fact, the only thing I can find on her is a four-year-old unpaid parking ticket that was written on September 11, 2001. Given what was happening then, I doubt she even knew she'd received it.

"In 1976, when she was just eighteen she opened her first business in Kerhonkson, a few miles this side of Catskill State Park. It was a little boutique selling girlie things like barrettes, lip-gloss, stuff like that. She sold it for a tidy profit four years later and moved to the city where she opened a leather goods shop."

"And that's when she changed her name to Mistress, right?" Liv guessed.

Munch peered at her over his glasses. "Actually, it's not what you think."

He went back to his notes and began reading again, "Hide and Seek: Everything You're Looking for in Leather sold backpacks, brief cases, hand sewn shoes and cowboy boots . . . "

"Cowboy boots?" Fin couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"_Urban Cowboy_ came out in 1980," Munch reminded him.

The group nodded. They all knew him too well to be surprised by his knowledge of arcane trivia anymore.

He looked at his tablet again, "Anyway, she sold strictly stuff that average people would actually use and wear on the street until she realized that there was quite a profit to be made from a more adventurous clientele. When the shop next door closed down, she bought the space and knocked out a wall to make room for a new product line. Soon that became the bulk of her business. One of the sales reps she dealt with introduced her to the lifestyle, and that's when she moved into toys and other fetishes, closed Hide and Seek, and opened XxxTreme Emporium."

As he wrapped up his monologue, he looked around and saw the group looking at him with varying degrees of surprise and curiosity.

"What?"

Cragen gave him a puzzled look and asked, "How much of that information did you get from public records and how much did you get from the woman herself, John?"

Blushing slightly, Munch said, "We talked when I took Annie's picture to her last night."

"You could have faxed the picture, or e-mailed it," Olivia said with a smile.

"I was on my way home anyway," he explained.

Cragen frowned. "If I'm not mistaken, her shop and your apartment are in opposite directions from here." As he spoke, he pointed in the two general directions with his thumbs, like a hitchhiker who didn't really care which way he was going as long as he got there.

John squirmed uncomfortably as the captain grinned at him. "She's an interesting person to talk to," he said weakly.

"Man, just shut up," Fin muttered behind his hand. "Nothin' you can say will make it sound better now."

Sighing in frustration, John said, "She has no criminal history, and she's agreed to ask her friends about DeVane and Annie."

"Ok, that's all we needed to know," Don said, laughter bubbling in his voice. "And what do we have planned for today?"

"I'm in court on another case at ten," John said.

Looking at his watch, Cragen said, "Then you better go now."

Munch nodded his goodbyes, got his hat and coat, and left.

"I'm gonna touch base with Alice Richardson, the girlfriend at the bank, and make sure she hasn't forgotten about us," Fin said. "Then I have an interview scheduled at noon with one of the original victims and her family, and another around three."

"I need to get back to my office and catch up on some paperwork, but I could come back and sit in if you like," Huang offered.

"Yeah, sure," Fin agreed.

Liv glanced at a note that a junior detective handed her and said as she read it, "It looks like . . . I'm off to another crime scene. Lauren Sebastian and her fiancée never made their flight to Bermuda."

"Fin, go get the car, Olivia will be along in a minute. I'll have someone else call Alice. Doc, I'll see you this afternoon. Benson, I need to talk to you before you leave." The two detectives and the psychiatrist exchanged confused looks as the captain turned and strode to his office. Then the men headed out of the squad room while Olivia followed her CO to his inner sanctum.

"What's up, Sir?" she asked, keeping her tone formal and respectful just in case she was in trouble.

"Have a seat, Liv."

She breathed a sigh of relief when his tone was cordial and friendly.

"I didn't mention this yesterday because I knew nothing was going to come of it until after Elliot's surgery, but you know this case has made the news, right?"

"Yes, Sir," she nodded. "I've noticed. What about it?"

"Kathy wants you to break it to Elliot. She and Maureen have been shielding him so far, but she thinks once his surgery is over and he starts healing up a little, he's not gonna let them pamper him so much. Sooner or later, he's gonna read the paper or see it on TV or hear it on the radio."

"I see."

"I just wanted you to know that she would be calling. Naturally, you have my permission to take off any time you need in order to visit him."

Nodding, Olivia said, "Thank you, but, why me?"

"Because she knows he trusts you not to give him any BS, and I imagine she trusts you not to tell him anything he can't handle."

"Ok. I'll take care of it as soon as possible."

"Good. Now, don't keep Fin waiting." Don smiled as his detective left. She was trying to handle this new responsibility smoothly, but he could tell she was nervous about it. She was probably the only one who didn't think she was the best person to tell her partner about the series of murders that Elliot was bound to think he could have prevented if only he had been a little better at his job.

Don frowned as it occurred to him that it might be helpful to have Rebecca Hendrix on hand after Liv broke the news to Elliot. As he dialed St. Vincent's to talk to Kathy, he pulled his rolodex over and began looking up the psychiatrist's number.

_Recovery Room  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
9:55 A.M., November 22, 2005_

_It was shoved in his mouth now, so deep down his throat he kept gagging. His ribs were on fire. Everything hurt. He could hear DeVane's heavy breathing and tried to shove him off, but the cuffs prevented him from doing so._

_"Elliot!"_

_Muriel called his name, but he couldn't help her. He couldn't even help himself._

_"Elliot!"_

_Desperate tears started to fall, and he struggled frantically to push DeVane away. Muriel was screaming now, a high, wordless shriek. DeVane slapped his face lightly, a gesture meant more to humiliate than hurt._

_"Elliot!" Muriel called again._

_DeVane smacked him harder this time, and his eyes popped open . . . _

. . . to see a slightly horsey face looking worriedly down at him.

"You're all right, Elliot."

_Teddy. _It took a moment for him to recognize his doctor and remember that he was in the hospital. _It's over, you're safe now._

More tears slipped from his eyes, both from the pain of the ventilator forcing his lungs to expand despite his damaged ribs and from the shame and terror of the memories evoked by the device's intrusion into his body.

"It's ok, Elliot," Teddy murmured. "You're safe here. I haven't left you. I'm not goin' to."

His eyes darted around the room, and he realized the shrieking in his hallucination had been an alarm. Another patient was in trouble and several doctors and nurses were crowded around a bed behind a curtain across the room. He heard the distinctive sound of a defibrillator shocking a body and winced. Then there was the steady beep of a beating heart, and he would have sighed in relief if the machine had allowed him to do so.

"I'm really sorry. You were supposed to be off the ventilator by now, but we've had a bit of an emergency," Teddy explained. "I just need you to relax and let the vent work for you, and as soon as things settle down, I'll have the anesthesiologist remove the breathin' tube, ok?"

He looked at her pleadingly, and she said, "I could do it myself in a pinch, but I'd rather wait for Dr. Choudhary. I could give you a little Versed in the meantime, help you relax until he can come."

At the thought of being drugged and incapacitated even further, he panicked and began struggling again.

"Ok, ok," she said, placing one hand on his chest and smoothing his hair back with the other, "I'll do it myself. Just . . . lie still."

Step-by-step, Teddy explained what she was doing, and whenever possible, she maintained some kind of physical contact with him.

"First, I need to make a note of your O2 levels," she said, pointing to a number on a display screen. "That's the readin' we get from the clothespin thingy we put on your finger before the surgery, remember?"

He thought a minute and the wiggled the finger in question to show that he did indeed recall.

"Right, and the number looks good, so the next thing I need to do is turn off the machine and make sure you can continue breathin' on your own." As she spoke, she adjusted a valve, flipped a switch, and the noise of the machine stopped. A moment later, Elliot inhaled for himself.

"Good," Teddy said in a softly encouraging tone. "Now we're gonna wait about five minutes to make sure you can keep it up."

He whimpered slightly, distressed at the thought of having to tolerate the tube even for five more minutes, but with it passing between his vocal cords, he didn't really make a sound.

While they waited, Teddy told him how his surgery went, spoke to one of the other doctors about the patient who had been in distress and assured him that she was going to be fine, and talked about the weather and her plans to go home for Thanksgiving. All the while, she held his good hand and stroked his arm soothingly.

"It's the first time in ten years all nine of us have managed to get together at home for the holiday," she said. "My brand new grandnephew, whom I haven't even met yet, is gonna be there. He's not quite a month old, but it's not such a long drive from Ohio, and he is my Daddy's first great-grandchild, so they are makin' the trip."

Looking at the monitor again, she said, "Your numbers are still good. You feelin' ok?"

He nodded slightly, and she adjusted his bed so he was sitting upright. Then she removed the strap that had been holding his wrist to the safety rail.

"I used soft restraints in case you should panic before you came round," she said apologetically. "I think it was a good thing I did."

Handing him an emesis basin, she said, "You might need this."

After detaching the tube from the ventilator, she wrapped a clean towel around the end of the tube protruding from his mouth and said, "I know this is gonna hurt a lot with your busted ribs, but when I say so, you need to take a really deep breath and then exhale like you're blowin' out a birthday cake, ok?"

A lean, brown-skinned man approached the bed to stand behind her and asked, "Would you like me to do that, Teddy?"

"I don't know Anoop, I think we're ok, aren't we, Elliot?" she asked, not glancing away from her patient for a moment.

She released her grip on the tube so he could nod or shake his head. He knew her, he trusted her, and he didn't want a stranger touching him right now. Without breaking eye contact, he nodded.

"Ok, then, I'll just stand here and make sure everything goes all right," the anesthesiologist said.

Teddy took hold of the tube again. "Ok, Elliot, breathe in, deeeeep breath."

It hurt like hell, but he did it because she told him to and he trusted her.

"And blow out."

It hurt even worse to do that, and as the tube slid out of his windpipe acid came rushing up from his stomach. He puked, getting most of it into the basin she had given him, groaned, and slumped back against the mattress.

"Thank you," he gasped after a moment, then asked, "Can I have a drink of water?"

"Not just yet," the anesthesiologist said, "but I'll give you something to rinse your mouth with and then you can have some ice chips, all right?"

Elliot nodded warily at the stranger, and when he was gone, Teddy reassured him, "That's Dr. Choudhary. He's a good guy, Elliot. I'll stay here with you, but we're gonna do what he says, ok? The recovery room is his show."

"Ok."

Using the same towel she had wrapped around the ventilator tube, Teddy wiped a thin dribble of vomit off his chin and dabbed away a couple of spots of it that had dripped onto his chest.

"You doin' all right?" she asked solicitously.

"Not really," he gasped quietly, "but I'll be ok as long as you don't leave me," he told her honestly.

"I'm not goin' anywhere. Our deal was I stay with you until you're in your own room with your family, and I intend to honor it."

Doctor Choudhary returned quickly, and after giving Teddy the mouthwash and ice chips, he began checking Elliot's monitors and IV. When he was done with that, he said, "Ok, Elliot, you seem to be doing fine. I just need to listen to your lungs for a moment to make sure they're clear and then I'll leave you alone for a while."

Elliot looked apprehensively at Teddy and without needing to be asked, she took his good hand in hers. He breathed and coughed as commanded; Dr. Choudhary told him he sounded fine, made a few notes on his chart, and excused himself.

"Ok, Elliot, now I just want you to close your eyes and rest. Go to sleep if you can," Teddy said quietly.

"But . . . "

"No buts," she interrupted. "Next time you wake up, we'll be movin' you back into the bed in your room. If you can keep your lunch down, you'll be home before your kids get out of school."

"If I can't?"

"We'll try again at dinner and hope to get you home by bedtime. Now hush and close your eyes."

He wanted to stay awake, but his eyelids were getting so heavy. Reluctantly, he nodded and allowed himself to doze off.

_Apartment of Lauren Sebastian  
236 East 84th Street  
10:11 A.M., November 22, 2005_

They were approaching the door of Lauren Sebastian's fifth-floor studio apartment when Fin stopped and turned to face Olivia.

"If this is anything like the last one, it's gonna be ugly," he warned her.

"They're all ugly," she said and moved to pass him, but he shifted to block her.

"Knowing what happened to Elliot is gonna make it harder," he said.

"I didn't read his statement," she reminded him.

"But you were with him for the exam," he replied.

"So I should be able to handle this," she snapped, and tried to pass on the other side.

"Liv," he said, taking her by the arm.

"Look, Fin, you warned me. Now, lead the way, or get out of mine."

He searched her face for a moment, trying to see how she was really doing. She was clearly nervous about confronting the carnage that was waiting for them, but there was a determination burning in her eyes, a light that said she would tear up hell if she had to in order to get justice for her partner. Yes, she was acting tough for his benefit, but, more importantly, she was strong enough to deal with it. Finally, he let go of her wrist and let her pass ahead of him.

"Olivia!" Melinda Warner called in surprise when she turned to see her friend and colleague entering the apartment. "I didn't think you were working this case."

"I wasn't," she said shortly. "Now I am. What have you got for us?"

Melinda shot a look at Fin, and Fin tilted his head and returned an expression that said, 'Just go with the flow.'

"They haven't been dead more than three hours," the ME said, "but he had them a good while before that."

"How can you tell?" Olivia asked, moving first to examine the woman's body, which was tied to a chair in a lewd position.

Warner came to stand beside her and indicated some of the welts on Lauren's flesh. "These wounds are beginning to scab over and the swelling has started to go down. It takes time for that to happen. I would say some of her wounds were at least twelve hours old when she died."

Liv checked her watch and said, "At least twelve and not more than fifteen."

"And how do you know that, Doctor Detective?" Melinda asked with one eyebrow raised.

"I was on the phone with her at seven o'clock last night to warn her that this bastard was out to get her." Crossing to the man's body, which was draped over one of the breakfast bar stools, hands cuffed to the support piece between the front legs and ankles tied to the back, and turned so he had a full view of the woman, she asked, "Fluids on both, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Forced oral cop?"

"Male victim only."

"But his wounds are fresher, aren't they? Probably not more than three or four hours old?"

"That's right," Melinda said, her eyes tracking the agitated detective as she paced the apartment, "Olivia, how do you know this?"

"They don't live together, yet," Olivia explained, ignoring the question. Gesturing to the floral brocade suitcases beside the door, she said, "That's all her luggage. They were flying to Bermuda to get married this morning. He came to pick her up and drive her to the airport. His car must be parked somewhere outside."

She stopped pacing and wheeled on the ME. "That . . . _bastard _. . . " her voice cracked and she paused to regain control.

"He had her all night long, torturing her, waiting for her fiancée to show up so he had an audience. Then he made them each watch while he raped the other. He killed her first, didn't he?" she asked, on the verge of tears.

"Yeah, judging by the blood trail, that's what we figure," one of the CSU techs replied. "How'd you guess?"

Pointing to the man and thinking of her partner, she choked, "Because he was supposed to protect her and DeVane wanted him to know that he'd failed!"

Breathing hard for a moment, she suddenly realized she was making a fool of herself in front of her co-workers. "I gotta get out of here," she muttered, and she bolted for the door.

Out in the hall, she slumped down against the wall and rested her head against her knees. Taking slow, deep breaths, she tried to suppress her emotions. A few minutes later, Fin came out and crouched down in front of her. Even before he spoke, she smiled slightly as she realized that Elliot would have sat right beside her, but Fin was a little too pudgy and reserved to comfortably plonk his butt down on the floor next to hers.

"You ok?"

She sniffled and scrubbed the tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands.

"Yeah," she gasped, "I just . . . "

As she struggled for words, she clenched her hands into tight fists and brought them up beside her ears as if she was about to pound on something in front of her. Then she opened her fists, waved her hands in front of her for a moment, and dropped them to her sides, saying, "I could see Elliot."

She held her breath, waiting for the 'I told you so,' but it never came. After a minute, Fin just asked, "So, you ready to get back to work, or what?"

"Yeah, let's do it," she said, wiping her nose on the back of her hand in a most unladylike fashion and pushing herself up from her seated position before Fin could stand up straight.

Striding confidently into the room this time she asked for all to hear, "Was there a note like before?"

A CSU handed her a sealed plastic bag. She read the letter without taking it out.

_Dear Elliot,_

_It's your fault they're dying, you know. If you had just let me wrap up my business twelve years ago, I could have moved on and the women of New York would have been safe from the likes of me._

_Nobody can blame Muriel's first time on you, but Elliot, the second time, you should have come when she called. Sheila and Ralph, and now Lauren and Alex, they're __all__ your fault. If you had stopped me at Muriel's, the rest of them would still be alive._

_I know every cop in New York is looking for me, every cop except you, anyway. But I have to finish what I started. There are only three names left on my list, but that's six more lives, then, who knows?_

_Are you man enough to come get me, or are you still just my bitch? How long did I put you in the hospital last time? It was close to two weeks, wasn't it? And I know you were off work for months. Seems like every time we run into each other, you wind up getting hurt. I guess no one can blame you for being afraid of me._

_Take care,_

_Rog_

"I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch when we find him," Olivia muttered.

"Maybe we should turn this over to Bronx SVU," Fin muttered.

When Olivia gave him a sharp look, he explained, "Everyone in our squad feels the same way. If we catch him, he might not make it to trial."

If it were Elliot speaking, she would have known right away, just by his tone of voice, whether he was being serious or facetious, but to her, even after carefully studying his face, Fin was inscrutable.

Deciding that two could play his game, she responded cooly, "I don't have a problem with that."

_The Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
10:00 A.M., November 23, 2005_

Olivia rang the bell and waited nervously for someone to answer. She had returned from the crime scene yesterday to find a note from Kathy Stabler in the envelope taped to her locker. It wasn't Elliot's home number, so she had to guess that it was either Kathy's cell or her mom's house. They'd talked in hushed tones, with Kathy being deliberately vague, and Olivia correctly guessed that she was on her cell, sitting in the hospital room next to a sleeping Elliot.

Now, Olivia was here to speak with Elliot about things she knew he would rather forget but would never be able to. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the kids had only half a day of school, so Kathy had asked her to come over fairly early. It would give Olivia time to break the news, and Rebecca Hendrix time to help him cope with it.

"Olivia, hi," Kathy said softly.

Liv smiled and stepped inside when Kathy held the door for her. "How's he doing?"

"He's in a pissy mood," she said. "Snapped at the kids over breakfast and went back to bed before nine. I told him he had a visitor coming, and he said he didn't want company. I told him I was going to let you in whether he was decent or not."

"Typical Elliot, huh?"

Kathy smiled sadly. "Yeah, but it's part of his charm." She gestured toward a door near the bottom of the stairs. "He's been sleeping in the guestroom. I'll be in the kitchen."

As Kathy walked away, Olivia moved toward the door. Tapping lightly, she called out, "Elliot?"

Getting no answer, she opened it just a crack and called into the space, "Elliot? It's me. Can I come in?"

"Go away, Liv."

"I'm sorry, I can't do that, partner. I need to talk to you. Ready or not, here I come."

She opened the door slowly to give him a chance to cover himself, compose himself, or do whatever he needed to do to make himself feel less vulnerable and more presentable when she first saw him. She found him sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, his injured foot propped up on a small stool, reading a National Geographic magazine.

"Hey, how you doing?" she asked as she came uninvited to sit on the edge of the bed.

He sniffled slightly, took a moment to find some inner reserve of toughness. "This sucks," he finally said with feeling.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Liv couldn't identify the emotion that came over his face then, but it broke her heart. After a moment, his expression was placid again, and he said, "Rebecca Hendrix is coming in an hour. I'll talk to her, but Liv?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for asking."

She smiled, knowing how much she was about to upset him.

"So, what brings you here?"

She wanted to banter a bit, lighten the mood, but that would be selfish. He was down right now. To cheer him up and then drop the bomb she had brought with her would only be cruel.

"Liv?"

"I need to talk to you about DeVane."

Instantly, he was angry, and Olivia was relieved. She could cope with an angry Elliot. His fury wasn't nearly as scary to her as his tears.

"I thought you weren't working my case!" he snapped.

"I'm not," she said quietly.

The anger was replaced by shock then, and when she was sure he'd registered her meaning, she nodded. "DeVane's back in action. It's made the news, and Kathy wanted me to tell you before you found out for yourself."

"How many little girls so far?"

Olivia frowned, not sure how to explain things to him. He misinterpreted her expression and said, "It's been twelve years. He's had a long dry spell and he's probably looking to make up for lost time."

It gratified her to hear him talking like a cop, but she was afraid what she was about to say would hurt him.

"Four, but not little girls," she said.

He frowned. "Guys like DeVane don't change their MOs, Liv."

"He didn't really change," she tried to explain. "He . . . became something else."

"Olivia," he said in a warning tone, "tell me what the hell is going on, right now."

"We found out he had a list of names," she said. "Twelve years ago, they were little girls. Now, he's going after the same people, but they are grown women. He's . . . he's getting their significant others, too."

"Getting them?" His face was pale. He already knew what she meant, but he needed to hear her say it before he could deal with it.

"Sexual assault, torture, murder."

"That son of a bitch!" Elliot muttered with feeling. "I should have known twelve years ago that it couldn't have been that easy. I should have continued investigating."

"Elliot, twelve years ago you were in the hospital for two weeks, and recovering at home for almost a month after that."

He gave her a surprised look and she admitted, "Cragen and I talked to Alphonse."

Elliot nodded. "That's right, he told me about that the other day when I came by to sign my statement. So Alphonse told you I had three months of ass duty after I got back to work, didn't he?"

"He mentioned it, why?"

"Because it was plenty of time to keep investigating. I should have . . . " His voice choked off and he ran a trembling hand over his mouth. "Dammit, I should have _known_!"

Olivia could see the pain the increased tension was causing him. She knew he needed to be pacing right now, or beating the hell out of some lockers. His physical state and his emotional condition were conspiring to make each other worse.

"Elliot, you did your job twelve years ago," she told him, placing her hands on his forearms as they rested on the arms of the chair. "You were the one who connected all of DeVane's attacks. You rescued a frightened little girl from a violent child molester, and you put her attacker in jail. The case was closed, he was convicted on all counts. You did your job."

"I closed the case, Liv, but I never solved it," he argued. "I never figured out how or why he was choosing his victims."

"You put him in jail without it," she reminded him in a soothing tone. "You didn't need to know after that."

"And now I'm responsible for him becoming a serial killer," Elliot rambled on as if she hadn't spoken. "What he did to me made him feel powerful. If I had just cleared the house, this wouldn't be happening."

Olivia couldn't bear to watch him spiral down into depression because of this. He'd done his best, he'd done everything he could. This was just one time when the situation had been more than he could handle. He'd come out of it alive, and that was enough.

"This is my fault," he muttered. "It's all my fault."

"Elliot!" she barked at him.

He jumped, and while she regretted the pain she saw on his face, she could tell it had cleared his head and she was glad of that.

"Elliot, listen to me."

His eyes weren't quite focused.

"Are you listening to me?" she asked, and he met her gaze clearly this time.

"What happened at Muriel's is not your fault," she told him. "It was beyond your control. I know that because I know you. If there was anything more you could have done, you would have done it. If there had been any way humanly possible to stop him, you would have found it. You didn't stop him because you couldn't. It just wasn't in the cards. Do you understand that?"

He nodded.

"Then say it."

He fell back on the mantra Rebecca had asked him to memorize. "It isn't my fault. I made a mistake. I . . . "

His mouth fell open in consternation. Olivia could see that something had finally clicked for him. She hoped it was something good.

"That's not right," he said adamantly. "I didn't make a mistake, Liv. Fin was at her house. He told me what really happened. I couldn't have known he was there. It's not my fault! I did my best, Liv! No one can expect more than that!"

Tears of relief began to fall, and on an impulse, she took him into her arms. He pressed his face against her shoulder and repeated a new mantra. "I did my best. It's not my fault."

This time, it wasn't an excuse. It was an affirmation.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, what do you all think? I do love the feedback, and to show my appreciation, I try to respond to every signed review. Detectivesweetheart and EnforcerAndAccuser fan, I know I still owe you replies. The reviews are in my inbox and I will get to them tomorrow. In the meantime, hey everyone, I'd love to hear what you think. Likes, dislikes, anything you found particularly emotional? When do you think they should tell Elliot about the notes DeVane has been leaving? What do you think his reaction will be? Well, thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed this installment. Jo 


	16. Lull

_**An Ill Wind**_

_**Chapter Sixteen  
Lull**_

OOO

_Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
7:25 A.M., November 27, 2005_

"Remember when I was little and you used to sneak into my room and wake me early on Sunday mornings so we could go get donuts for breakfast?" Kathleen asked as she and her dad sat watching Higglytown on the Disney Channel.

"Yeah, you always liked sprinkles. I had to fight you to get a couple of plain crullers in the box. Funny, I hadn't thought of that in years," Elliot said. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's Sunday morning and no one else is up."

He shot her a sideways glance and pursed his lips thoughtfully. He should have been suspicious when she came down before the rest of the household was awake. Kathleen was like her mother and younger sibling in that she preferred to sleep in whenever she could. Only Maureen was an early riser like him.

"I used to love that time alone together, having my daddy all to myself," she told him. "I used to imagine the other kids were so jealous."

"I'm sure they were, I'm a popular guy," he joked.

"Daddy!" She gave him a bit of a shove, and he laughed trying to cover the pain from his complaining ribs.

"Sorry," she said when she saw him wince despite himself. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, just a little sore."

They sat there until the next commercial break, just enjoying being together, then she turned to him and said, "So, are we gonna go get donuts or not?"

"Kathleen," he said uneasily, not wanting her to know how frightening it still was for him to leave the security of his home. "With my hand in a cast and my foot in a splint, I can't drive."

"I can."

He opened his mouth to remind her of the night she was picked up for DUI, how he had saved her ass, called in a lot of favors, and gotten some good cops to stick their necks out on her behalf, but he knew that would be cruel. She'd suffered for it plenty and she'd stayed out of trouble since then. He knew from personal experience that although constantly reminding a child of every screw up and failure might make them think twice the next time, it did more harm than good by undermining their self-esteem and making them feel unworthy of their parents' love.

"I . . . don't really feel up to it," he said. "Maybe another time."

"You don't have to be scared," she said, taking him completely by surprise.

He turned to look at her, trying to cover his shock, and she said, "Drinking and driving was incredibly stupid, but I am a good driver."

He smiled at her, relieved that she hadn't realized the depth or nature of his fear and pleased that he hadn't been the one to mention the DUI incident.

"Sweetie, I wasn't even thinking of that," he lied. "I know you made a mistake, and I don't think you'll make it again. I really just don't feel up to it. Maybe next week, when my ribs aren't so sore."

He hated to disappoint her, but it had barely been more than a week since the attack, and so far, the only time he had even felt close to comfortable leaving the house had been with Kathy. In his current state, he couldn't protect his daughter if anything went wrong, and that frightened him. He also knew he could still go into a panic attack at any time and that would only upset her and force him to give a very difficult explanation. He'd been aware several times of Kathy pulling him back from the edge, but Kathleen wouldn't know what to look for. Hell, she didn't know she should be looking for anything!

"Please? Just to the Krispy Kreme? It'll only take twenty minutes. You were ok to go all the way to Grandma's on Thanksgiving."

He felt like such a tremendous coward. He couldn't tell her the truth, he didn't want to lie, and he couldn't explain why he was so damned afraid without telling her what had happened. If he continued to refuse, she might think it was because of her driving, and he didn't want to make her doubt herself or her abilities that way.

"It's Sunday morning and traffic is light," she persisted.

He was getting all worked up over what should be a simple thing. Going to the donut shop with his daughter should have been the easiest thing in the world, but it wasn't.

She put a hand on his arm and he jumped, then groaned at the pain it cause his ribs.

"Daddy? Are you ok?"

He looked at her and tried a smile.

"Daddy, I'm sorry."

It was obvious that she didn't know why she was apologizing. She was confused and worried now, because of his stupid indecision. He had to make it right, make sure she knew it wasn't her fault. He knew what he had to do, and that frightened him even more.

"I'm . . . afraid, Sweetheart," he admitted, amazed that he could get the words out.

"Of my driving?"

Part of him was amused by the naïve question and he laughed slightly.

"No, Baby, of what might happen."

His heart rate was already slowing. The hardest part was over.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Neither do I," he admitted, "but I'll explain what I can."

She nodded, the worry still plain on her face, and said, "I'm listening."

"I've been hurt on the job before, but not like this," he said. "Usually, a guy takes a swing at me, I can give as good as I get. Even if I don't win, he knows he's been in a fight, but this guy, he was all over me before I could react. Now, if I can't defend myself, how am I supposed to protect you?"

"But you were ok to go places with Mom," she reminded him.

He shrugged. "She's an adult."

"Daddy, I'm seventeen."

"You'll be eighty years old, Kathleen, and if I'm still around, you'll still be my little girl, and it will still be my job to protect you," he informed her. "It's just part of being a dad."

"And that's why you won't go with me?" her voice was incredulous. "Because you're afraid someone will attack us in the twenty minutes we're out getting donuts?"

"I know it's stupid, but that's how I feel right now."

"No, Daddy, it's not stupid," she said, surprising him with her compassion, "but it's not normal either. If you keep thinking that way, you'll never leave here again. There's a chance something might happen every time one of us steps out that door, and if that's not bad enough, there's always the chance that someone might come in here."

"You know, you're not really helping matters, Kathleen," he said, but the truth was, she'd already helped him, just by listening, and he let her know it with a pained smile.

She shrugged. "Sorry, but you know it's true, probably better than I do."

He just nodded.

"Look," she said after a minute, "it's only a few blocks away, and I'll take my cell phone so we can call if there's a problem. If you start getting too scared, I'll come right home."

He was still reluctant.

"We'll take your Valium with us."

He gave her a sharp look and she shrugged again. "Maureen told me the doctor prescribed it, in case you need it when she and Mom aren't home to get it for you."

"Don't I get to have any secrets any more?"

She tilted her head and said, "You shouldn't need to. We all love you, no matter what."

She gave him a moment to digest that, and then asked, "So, what do you say to some donuts? I won't even argue with you about the crullers."

He smiled and slowly stood up. "You've made me an offer I can't refuse."

_An Ill Wind_

Twenty minutes had turned into thirty because Elliot's injuries slowed them down, but between Kathleen's chattering and the task of choosing the donuts, he had made the trip without panicking or taking a Valium. It was a step in the right direction but he was still relieved to get home, and when he hobbled into the living room, he sank into the sofa with a grateful sigh.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Kathleen asked as she walked by him on her way to the kitchen.

"It was like chewing glass," he grumbled, "but I'm glad you convinced me to go."

From behind the couch, she leaned over and wrapped an arm around him kissing him on the cheek. "I'm glad you came," she said, "and how do you know what chewing glass is like?"

The unexpected contact from behind frightened him and flooded his system with adrenaline and made his heart start pounding, but he was safe at home and it was his daughter hugging him. As she moved away, he called out, "It's just a figure of speech."

Then he took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

A few minutes later, Kathleen was back with two cups of coffee and a precariously balanced plate of donuts. Not yet trusting himself to hold the cup without shaking and spilling it all over, he gestured for her to set it on the coffee table in front of them. Taking a seat beside him, she cuddled against him, careful not to jostle him because of his ribs.

A moment later she pulled away.

"Ewww. Daddy, you're all sweaty!" She looked at him and gasped. "And you're pale. Are you all right? Maybe I should get Mom."

He grabbed her wrist to prevent her from moving away and said shakily, "I'm all right, Kathleen. It's just nerves."

"Do you need a Valium?"

"No, I'm ok," he said, finding a steady and reassuring voice from somewhere inside himself. "I just need a minute."

"But, Daddy . . ."

"Really. It's just nerves. I'll be fine."

She peered at him closely then, and he tried to steady his breathing and hide the fear in his eyes, but she knew him too well. Leaning a little closer, she asked, "What happened to you? What did he do to you?"

He bit his lip, lowered his eyes, tried to think. Maureen had figured it out for herself because she could handle it. He could talk to her about it because she wasn't just older than her sister; she was also more mature. Kathleen was still a bit childish for her age, and he knew she wouldn't be able to cope with the truth, but he didn't want to lie to her either.

Looking up, he met her eyes and said, "I don't want to talk about it, Kathleen. You just have to trust me when I tell you I'm doing all right."

She frowned, not sure if she could really take him at his word. Finally, to his relief, she nodded. "Ok, but if you need me to do something, ask, all right?"

He nodded. "I will. Right now, I'd like it if you would sit back down with me."

She did, and after a minute, she cuddled carefully beside him.

"Your heart's still pounding," she said softly.

He kissed her hair and said, "It'll be ok."

She turned on the TV. He took a bite of cruller and drank some coffee without spilling a drop.

_Examination Room  
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan  
9:42 A.M., December 12, 2005_

When Dr. Theodora Wells entered the exam room, Kathy was ashamed of the first thought that struck her. Teddy was not an attractive woman. She had thick, curly red hair pulled back with a headband this time instead of a braid, but it was a bit too orange to be auburn and a bit to frizzy to look glamorous. While most women wished to be a little taller, Teddy's six-foot-four stature made her imposing rather than statuesque. She had nice legs, but because of her height, she wouldn't wear heels, so she couldn't show them off to her best advantage. She was too thin to have a figure, and so bony she appeared to have sharp edges. Nearly every inch of exposed skin was covered with a multitude of dark freckles from too much time spent in the sun, and her face was covered with a mesh of fine lines and creases that made her look older than her years. She had gorgeous, light green eyes, but they were set a tad too far apart and made her look just a bit dimwitted. And when she turned her radiant smile on Elliot, with her wide eyes and narrow chin, she reminded Kathy of nothing so much as a horse.

Teddy was also intelligent, funny, compassionate, and completely charming. Before Elliot's surgery, Kathy had looked up her bio on the hospital's website and learned that she was a gifted surgeon, a pioneer in her field, and a respected teacher as well. Sadly, only her family, patients, and colleagues would ever know her best features were all in her personality because no man would ever look at her twice, let alone go out of his way to make conversation.

Kathy shifted uncomfortably when the doctor shook her hand in greeting. Her preoccupation with the woman's looks was shallow and shameful and oddly akin to jealousy and Kathy knew it, but she could neither excuse it nor explain it because she didn't understand it.

Elliot seemed comfortable talking with Teddy, so Kathy sat quietly and brooded while the doctor examined his surgical incision, explained that an assistant would be giving him a hard plastic splint before he left to help keep the healing bones still between physical therapy sessions for a few more weeks until they were strong again and then turned the conversation to his condition in general.

"Well, you haven't called the office," Teddy said cheerfully. "So I can only assume that you haven't been having too much trouble since the surgery."

Elliot nodded, "Yeah, my hand's felt a lot better since you fixed it."

"Are you still taking pain meds?" she asked.

"I take one percodan when I get up in the morning and another after dinner," he told her easily.

Teddy grinned. "Perc's are great aren't they?"

Elliot nodded. "They sure are."

"And two a day is enough to manage your pain?" she asked in surprise.

"Yeah," Elliot told her. "Sometimes my hand will ache when I'm out in the cold, but mostly, I take them for my ribs."

Teddy shook her head regretfully and said, "I wish I could fix those for you as easily as I did your hand."

"So do I, Doc," Elliot agreed in a gloomy tone. "In the morning before the meds kick in and in the evening when they start to wear off every movement hurts, opening the pill bottles, lifting the glass to drink the water to wash them down, even breathing. It just sucks."

Teddy frowned thoughtfully and opened her folder. "It says here that you can take up to four tablets a day," she said. "Why aren't you taking more?"

"As long as it's working, I don't want to overdo it and start acting dopey or, worse yet, become addicted," Elliot admitted.

Teddy eyed him skeptically. "If you're hurting that much, it's not working," she said. "The drug is losing its effectiveness before the next dose. Instead of taking one tablet every twelve hours, take one every eight hours. It's still less than the maximum allowed amount, and it should be enough that it doesn't quit working between doses."

"Yeah, but the more I take, the greater the risk of addiction," he argued.

"That's not true, Elliot," she told him. "As long as you take it on a schedule and only take enough to manage your pain, your risk of getting hooked is minimal at best. Why are you so worried about it? Do you have a history of addiction?"

"What? No!" he answered adamantly.

"Then who does?" Teddy asked. At Elliot's shocked look, she smiled sympathetically and said, "Only experience could make someone so afraid. So, tell me, who's the addict in your background?"

He looked down and started playing with the wrinkles in the fabric of his jeans where his knee bent. "My dad," he replied softly. "He drank a lot when I was a kid, and he was a mean drunk."

"And you're afraid of turning into him, aren't you?"

Elliot shrugged, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Kind of."

"Do you crave the percodan between doses?"

"Not really," he said. "I just want to stop hurting."

"Do you drink alcohol?"

"Sometimes."

"To excess?"

"A couple of times."

"In your life?"

"Yeah."

"Do you crave it frequently?"

"Not frequently."

"Just after the occasional bad day, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"How often do you have bad days, usually?"

"Maybe once a month."

"And what do you do then?"

"Have a beer with my friends."

"_A_ beer? As in _one_?"

He shrugged. "Maybe two."

"I see." Teddy couldn't hide a chuckle. "Elliot, addiction is partly genetic for some people, but not all. Judging by your history, your demanding career, the stress of raising four kids, and the fact that you're not already popping percodan and Xanax like breath mints, I would say your odds of becoming an addict are extremely low. Take three a day. You'll feel better."

"I don't know, what if . . ." he hesitated.

"Let me tell you what I _do_ know," Teddy interrupted. "You're taking half the maximum daily dosage now, and you're still in pain. Prolonging your pain is hindering your physical and emotional recovery. If you hurt less, you can move more, blood flow to the injuries is better, and they heal faster. Healing faster makes you feel physically better which gives you more energy to cope with your emotional pain. One more percodan a day will still have you under the max, and it will relieve your pain. The benefits far outweigh the risks. Now, it's your choice, but making yourself suffer needlessly is just foolish."

As Elliot finally nodded his consent, Kathy suddenly realized what Teddy had that she did not. Then she realized that she had every reason in the world to be jealous of the doctor. Elliot trusted her.

_W. 146th St. and Lenox Ave.  
Harlem, New York  
3:24 P.M., December 14, 2005_

"Dammit!" Olivia shouted when she saw the condition of Alex Bartlett's brand new Chevy Impala. "Dammit, dammit, _dammit_!"

The last word came out on a strangled sob and Munch placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. When Bartlett's car had not been found outside of Lauren Sebastian's apartment building nor in his usual parking garage near his own home, they had at least had some idea what DeVane had been driving. Now that the car had been abandoned and subsequently stripped for parts, all of their leads were gone.

"It'll be all right, Olivia," John tried to soothe her, but she roughly batted his hand away, turned, and gave him a shove.

"No, it won't, Munch!" she shouted and inelegantly wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She was obviously struggling not to cry and John didn't know whether to comfort her or share in her indignation. "That car was our last lead. Now, DeVane is in the wind, and we won't get another shot at him until he kills another couple."

"We'll get him, Liv," John insisted.

"Not until we have another set of victims," she told him, dabbing at her eyes, "and in the meantime, I get to tell Elliot we lost him _again_."

"He'll understand," Munch said gently.

Olivia glared at him. "Would you?" Now the frustrated tears were flowing and she had given up trying to stop them.

John held out his hands to her in a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry, Liv, I don't know what to say. This is killing us all because Elliot is our friend, but it's obviously toughest on you. All we can do is our jobs, and sooner or later, we _will_ get him."

"You don't know that," she sniffled.

He took a step closer and said sympathetically, "No, I don't, but I choose to believe it because there is no other alternative."

She stood there a moment, biting her lip and trying not to cry. Not knowing what else to do, John stepped forward and took her into a hug. She clung to him then, sobbing like a frightened child.

The past three and a half weeks had been very difficult on all of them, but things had been especially bad for Olivia. Unfortunately, the rapists and child molesters of New York hadn't gone on sabbatical until they could apprehend Roger DeVane, so they'd all had to work the usual cases in addition to Elliot's. With her partner out of commission, Olivia had been forced to pair off with other detectives, with less than ideal results.

She'd gone through the junior detectives like they were toilet paper, three of them in one day a week ago. The last of them to feel her wrath had spoken to John privately, saying, "We all know Stabler is a hard ass, it's part of his charm and it makes him a good detective, but none of us expected her to be such a bitch. I know they're good friends and all, but if she can't work with anyone but him, maybe they're too close."

Munch wanted to explain that Olivia's anger wasn't about Elliot being gone so much as it was about the way he had gone. They were all feeling it, her and him and Fin and Cragen, the rage that one of their own had been hurt and the frustrated impotence that they had been unable to locate the man who had done it. Instead, he just looked at the young man and said, "That's sexist. If she were a man, you'd be calling her a hard ass just like Stabler, and you would be eager to learn from her years of experience. Get out of here and don't come whining to me again."

Munch noted that Olivia's tears were abating. He held her for a few more minutes, glad that he, Fin, and Cragen had been able to hang in there with her. When she refused to work with the junior detectives any more the three of them had taken turns partnering with her whenever she had business that took her out of the squad room. Fin had told him about her reaction to the last crime scene, and though Cragen hadn't mentioned it, John wouldn't be surprised if she had suffered a similar outburst with him. He didn't doubt that what the others saw as bitchiness was really Olivia trying to conceal the grief and frustration she could only let out around her closest friends in the squad.

Liv pulled away from him, still sniffling, and offered a tremulous smile. "Sorry about that," she gasped. "And thanks."

John just gave her a smile and a nod, and then they called CSU to go over what was left of the vehicle. When they were done at the scene, it was towed to the police garage where the forensic team would do a more detailed analysis. Neither of them wanted to admit it, but they knew if the garage didn't turn up anything, they would have to shelve this case until DeVane struck again.

_Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
7:19 P.M., December 16, 2005_

Elliot sighed as he lay back in the recliner, an issue of _Sports Illustrated_ spread open in his lap. The twins were upstairs cleaning their rooms and Kathleen was in the kitchen helping her mother wrap Christmas presents. Maureen had yet to come home from wherever she had gone.

Elliot had been to physical therapy for his hand for the second time today, and even though he'd only worked on fine motor skills by moving small beads from a tray into a paper cup and then turning the pages in a phone book, it was tiring. The splint Teddy had provided him supported the injury and kept the healing bones stable, but it did nothing to strengthen his grip. So, when his left hand had started to shake with the effort of holding the magazine, he had laid it down and leaned back in the chair to rest and think.

His life had fallen into a comfortable, if dull, routine of medical visits, counseling sessions, and Sunday morning donut runs, and the days were starting to blur together. A random thought of returning to desk duty wandered through his unsuspecting mind. The mere _idea_ of having to face monsters and perverts like DeVane every day was so shocking that his heart began to thump, and he had to shy away from it. The idea that his colleagues would know what had happened to him was almost as bad, and with a quiet groan, he tried to distract himself by turning on the TV.

As he flipped aimlessly through lame sitcom reruns, old westerns he'd seen dozens of times, a few kiddie shows, and enough news channels to give anyone information overload, his mind began to wander again. Slowly, sneakily, his thoughts sidled around to his job again, but this time, subtly, just contemplating what was going on in his absence, not demanding a decision on whether he'd ever go back to it.

For almost a month, someone from the squad had been dropping by or calling a couple of times a week, just to see how he was doing, and Liv had been checking on him every day. His answer, when they asked him, was always the same, "Fine." Then Rebecca Hendrix had stopped making house calls a week ago after he made a follow-up visit to his family doctor and was told he didn't need the crutch for his bum ankle anymore, that the splint would provide enough support until it healed. Kathy had driven him to her office in Manhattan three times that week, and he had let her see that he most definitely was not "fine," but he didn't want to worry his colleagues.

They had enough on their minds trying to track Roger DeVane. He'd seen the news stories and was amazed and grateful that they'd managed to keep his name out of it so far. They didn't talk much about the case when they called, but he knew from what little they said that things had stalled. There hadn't been any new attacks since the day of his surgery, but none of their leads had panned out either. At one point they thought they knew what he was driving, but that turned up in Harlem two weeks ago, abandoned and stripped for parts. The lab had turned up some latent prints and some tinted cement dust on the vehicle, but so far nothing had come of it. The dust had been from the victim's most recent worksite, and until they located the thief who had left his mark on the vehicle all they could do was wait for something to happen.

Elliot realized his colleagues had probably been forced to move on to other investigations by now, but Olivia certainly, and Cragen, Munch, and Fin probably were still devoting as much of their free time as they could to finding DeVane. While on the one hand, he was warmed by their show of support, on the other hand, he felt guilty that they were giving so much of themselves on his behalf. Part of him wanted to tell them that they could stop killing themselves, but most of him was still too afraid to consider the possibility of letting DeVane go until he struck again.

He heard Maureen come in through the back door and tell her mother she'd picked up the mail.

Talking to Rebecca had really helped him. He hadn't had a panic attack since he'd woken up in the recovery room after Teddy had fixed his hand, and he'd made the trip to the Krispy Kreme with Kathleen on three consecutive Sundays; but for the past couple of days, he had known in the back of his mind that he was approaching the one-month anniversary of the attack, and it had left him feeling distinctly depressed.

He knew Rebecca would want to know how he was feeling, and as he lay there with his eyes closed, he tried to think about it.

He was depressed. He was glum. He was unmotivated. All he wanted to do was sleep.

Did he want to go back to work?

He felt something twist in his stomach and his heart started to pound. He definitely wasn't ready for that. Hell, he was still scared!

He wondered if she would want to put him on antidepressants. He knew he'd refuse. He didn't need drugs. He wasn't suicidal or anything, he just needed to get his shit together and get on with things.

"That's for your dad," he heard Kathy tell the girls, and he smiled when he heard them oooh and ahh. Ordinarily, he would find every excuse in the world to keep going into the kitchen and trying to get a peek at his presents. Usually, he was as excited at this time of year as the children were, but he just didn't have it in him anymore. He was angry that DeVane had taken that away from him.

"Aiyiyiyiyieee!"

The sound of Maureen screaming like a whipped puppy had him launching himself out of the recliner and charging into the kitchen to see what was wrong. He vaguely registered Kathy sweeping something small and dark into her lap at the same time as he realized how much his body was protesting the sudden abuse. His ribs and ankle didn't usually bother him much unless he overdid it, but now they were complaining about his mad dash to rescue his daughter. Kathy read his expression and automatically shoved a chair in his direction. Gratefully, eased himself into it.

A moment later the twins came bounding downstairs. "What is it? What happened?"

"I GOT IT!" Maureen shouted excitedly, beaming at them all. "The internship with Safe Horizon here in Queens. They've accepted me!"

"Sweetie, that's wonderful!" Kathy congratulated her.

Having worked for years with crime victims, Elliot wasn't as excited as his wife was, but Maureen had gotten what she wanted and he was pleased for her.

"Good for you, Kiddo," he smiled.

Maureen scanned the letter, mumbling rapidly to herself. "I work six hours a day and spend every other weekend on call . . . two hours a day in training . . . Nine credits for working and six for the training," she said, "so I'll still be a full time student and can collect my financial aid . . . and they're paying me . . . oh, my goodness, they're paying me _over six thousand dollars_! That's insane!"

Amid the awed responses from the rest of the family, Elliot gave her a small smile and said, "Trust me, Sweetheart, you'll earn it."

"Wait a minute, this isn't right," Maureen said, sounding confused now. "They want me in the Child Advocacy Center three days a week and in the Supervised Visitation Program the other two."

"What's supervised visitation?" Dickie asked.

Maureen, Kathy, and Elliot shared a look, and Elliot took charge of explaining. "When a parent hurts a child, but decides to get help to learn better ways to deal with his or her frustration, the court will let him or her visit the child, but only with someone there to watch them."

"You mean so the kid doesn't get hurt again, right?" Dickie asked.

"That's right."

Looking to Maureen, the young teen asked, "And they want you to watch?"

She nodded.

"Why would they let them see the kid at all?"

Maureen looked at her dad and knew from the expression on his face what he wanted to say. Looking back to Dickie, she explained, "You know, it doesn't make much sense to me either, but when the parent really wants to change, when he or she really wants to do things right, it helps both of them to be able to see each other."

"Oh."

She could tell Dickie wasn't convinced, but he didn't argue, so she let it drop. She wasn't sure she could adequately explain a position she didn't support herself anyway, so it was best to avoid the discussion.

"Daddy, I applied to work in the Rape Crisis Center. Did you have anything to do with this?"

"Oh, no!" Elliot quickly denied the accusation. "No way! I minded my own business, just like you asked, Maureen, but I will tell you this, if I had decided to meddle, I would have done anything to _prevent_ you from working with children."

"What? Why?"

She sounded angry and offended and Elliot rushed to explain.

"Sweetie, I think you'll be great at it, but I know how hard it will be," he said. "Nothing you do there will be easy, but dealing with child victims is the toughest . . . "

Suddenly he was feeling emotional and it was hard to finish his thought. He was proud of his little girl for getting the job, but his heart was breaking to know what was in store for her. He wanted to forbid her to take it for her protection, but she was a grown woman now and she'd always had a mind of her own.

"Nobody can handle the crimes against children, Maureen." He knew he'd heard that somewhere before and realized Liv had said it on one of their earliest cases together. "If it were up to me, I'd rather see you do almost anything else, but this is your decision and I'll honor it and support you, whatever you choose to do."

He got up and started to walk out of the kitchen because he didn't want to upset his family with his dark thoughts, but he paused on his way out and looked over his shoulder at his eldest child. "I want you to know that I am proud of you, Sweetheart, I'm just worried because I know how hard this will be on you."

He was sitting on the sofa feeling gloomy when Maureen came to join him a few minutes later. She sat beside him and snuggled up close, and he wrapped his arm around her. For a long time, they just sat together, listening to each other breathe.

Finally she asked, "You really don't want me to do this, do you Daddy?"

He kissed the top of her head and said honestly, "No, Baby Girl, I don't, but it's not up to me. It's your life, and you have to follow your heart. If this is what you want, you should do it. I'll support you."

"I wanted the Rape Crisis Center, but Mom says I should look at this as a way to expand my résumé. She says I probably impressed them so much that when they didn't have a slot in the RCC they found one for me elsewhere."

"She's probably right," he said fondly.

"You're just saying that."

"No, I'm not," he denied. "Ever since Kathleen was born, you've been mothering your sisters and brother. Kids who are hurting need someone like you. It will be hard on you, but if you do it, you'll be great at it."

Again they fell quiet for a while, and then Maureen asked, "Do you know why I'm doing this?"

"I kind of figured it was because of what I do for a living," he responded.

"Shows how much you know," she teased.

"All right then, enlighten me," he requested.

"Remember when you visited Dickie's class when he was in second grade?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, there was a little boy who asked you what he should do if his mom and dad were the people who were hurting him."

Elliot started feeling just the slightest bit ill.

"I remember that," he said. "I told him to tell Dickie and that Dickie would tell me."

Maureen nodded her head where it rested against his shoulder.

"Uh-huh. His name was Marvin. When he did tell Dickie what was happening, Dickie didn't tell you, he went with Marvin to tell the teacher instead. The police eventually arrested his dad and his grandma got the courts to let him live with her instead of his mom.

"Marvin was the best friend of my friend Marissa's little brother, Kurt. When she heard Kurt talking about how Dickie had helped Marvin, she came to me and told me her boyfriend had forced her to have sex in his car on the way home from a basketball game just the weekend before. I called mom and told her I was going to the library after school and that I would take the bus home. Then when school was over I took Marissa to the hospital."

Elliot had shifted to stare at her in amazement. How could all of this have happened and escaped his notice?

"I stayed with her through the examination. She still had bruises, and the boy gave her gonorrhea. It wasn't much, but the police were able to use it to get a confession out of him.

"While the nurse was out of the room giving the evidence bags to the police, Marissa told me she'd been thinking of killing herself. She was afraid she might get pregnant and that no one would believe her because she had waited a couple of days to tell anyone and that her parents would say she got what she deserved because they hadn't liked her boyfriend anyhow.

"I convinced her to tell the nurse, and the nurse called the Rape Crisis Center. The RCC sent a counselor out to talk to her, and the counselor helped her tell her parents. They didn't blame her at all. When the counselor got her to admit she was thinking about suicide, they got her help, and . . . well, now, she's majoring in premed at SUNY."

"You know, you saved two lives the day you told those little kids it was ok to tell when someone you love is hurting you."

"Why didn't you tell me what was going on?" Elliot fretted. "Why didn't either of you tell me?"

"We didn't want to worry you," Maureen said. "We didn't tell Mom either because we knew she'd tell you."

"Maureen, it's my job to worry about you," he pointed out. "I'm your father."

"But that's just it, Daddy, there was nothing _to_ worry about. You taught us what to do and we weren't afraid to do it," she insisted. "When I saw how relieved Marissa was to be able to tell her parents, how much it helped her to confront the boy who had hurt her, I knew I had done a really good thing, something that mattered. I'd helped her get through something really bad, and I liked the way that felt. I want to be able to do something important like that with my life, Daddy. That's why I worked at the Rape Crisis Center on campus, and it's why I'm going to take this internship with Safe Horizon."

He kissed her hair and said emphatically, "Don't _ever_ forget that feeling, Sweetheart. If you decide this really is what you want to do for a living, there will be times when it's the only thing that makes you get out of bed and go into work."

Maureen sighed. "Sometimes I wish you didn't have such a hard job, Daddy."

"Then you know exactly how I feel about what you're doing, don't you?"

"Yeah, and you know why I'm gonna do it anyway, right?"

He squeezed her closer to him, sighed quietly, and said, "Yeah, I do."

A few minutes later, Kathleen came in and curled up beside him on the other side and the three of them sat quietly in the dark watching the Christmas tree lights twinkle.

"I know what Mom got you for Christmas," Kathleen teased him in a whisper.

"Yeah, what?"

"It's a secret," she said.

"I'll secret you," he laughed and tickled her a little.

She jumped and squealed and he grunted softly as the motion jostled his still-healing ribs. Then she carefully cuddled close again. "You're going to like it," she told him.

Again they lapsed into silence until Dickie and Elizabeth came scampering in.

"_A Charlie Brown Christmas_ is on!" Dickie said excitedly trying to squeeze in between Elliot and Kathleen.

"Watch the ribs, Tiger," Elliot admonished him, and Dickie moved more gently as Kathleen slid over to allow him room.

"And after that, they're showing the original version of _The_ _Grinch Who Stole Christmas_!" Lizzie said as she climbed on Elliot's lap, careful not to move too quickly.

"Hey, what is this? _Hop on Pop_?"

"Yep!" Lizzie nodded and she picked up the remote control and turned the TV on.

"We're not hurting you, are we?" Kathleen asked with concern.

Lizze was a little big to be climbing on him the way she was, but she was growing up so fast, he knew this might be his last chance to hold his baby in his lap, so he didn't complain.

"Nah, I'm fine," he said. "Just don't squirm around too much and I'll be ok."

Kathy was the last to join them. She came in bearing a tray loaded with mugs of hot chocolate and graham crackers. Dickie slid down to the floor so he could sit at the coffee table to eat and drink. Kathy took the spot he had vacated beside Elliot. When she snuggled up close, he didn't know what to feel.

Part of him was brimming with happiness to have his family surrounding him again, another part was scared to death that they would be leaving any day now that he was ambulatory, and in the back of his mind was the stark terror that his children were on the verge of stepping out into the wide, wide world, and he couldn't protect them anymore.

"Our Christmas Concert at school is the twenty-third," Lizzie said.

"_Holiday_ Concert," Dickie reminded her. The school had to be politically correct, so the teachers were always correcting them when they called it the Christmas Concert. "We need to be respectful of everyone's beliefs and not everyone celebrates Christmas."

"Call it what you want," Elizabeth said. "Our school is more than ninety percent Christian. In a democracy, the majority rules so it's already a respectful gesture to include Hanukah songs for the thirty Jewish kids. If we really respected everyone, we would call it the _Winter_ Concert because 'holiday' comes from 'holy day' and there are a few atheists in school who don't observe _any_ 'holy' days. I _am_ respectful of everyone, and I think calling it the 'Holiday Concert' is disrespectful to anyone who isn't Christian because it implies that we don't think they're smart enough to realize what we're really celebrating when eleven of the fourteen songs are about Christmas, only two are about Hanukah, and one is 'Let It Snow.'"

"You've given this some serious thought, haven't you?" Elliot asked.

"We had a debate in Civics today and I beat him with the same arguments then, too," she said proudly.

"And what did your non-Christian classmates think of that?" Kathy asked.

"They agreed with me and appreciated my honesty," Lizzie said, "and they don't really care that we have a Christmas Concert at school. If they're religious, they have their own celebrations at their own…um…whatever they have instead of a church, and if they're not, they still get two weeks off school."

"So," Elliot asked, tugging gently on her pony-tail. "Are you going to be a lawyer or a diplomat when you grow up?"

"I'm going to start out as a Constitutional lawyer," Elizabeth said perfectly seriously, "but then I'm either going to become a judge and get appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court or run for Congress and become Speaker of the House because that's where the real power lies."

"Oh, really?" Elliot said, trying not to smirk because she sounded so certain of her destiny.

"Yep. Because they get to decide on the final interpretation of the Constitution and determine whether laws are constitutional, the Supreme Court kind of gets to make laws without having to go through Congress to do it," Elizabeth explained, "and the Speaker of the House pretty much runs Congress."

"Since when have you been so interested in politics and government?" he asked.

"Since Mr. Caldwell has been our civics teacher," Dickie said before his sister could reply. In a falsetto voice he added, "He's just sooo handsome and his eyes are to die for."

"Shut up, Dorkey," Elizabeth said and kicked him lightly in the back. "You're just jealous because I mopped the floor with you in the debate."

"Both of you be quiet," Maureen said. "Charlie Brown is on."

Kathy looked up at Elliot and smiled. He smiled back, kissed her chastely on the forehead, and made up his mind to enjoy the moment.

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
5:34 P.M., December 19, 2005_

"Listen very carefully Mr. Norwood, and there's a chance you might walk out of here a free man," ADA Casey Novak said as she faced down the rather unkempt man sitting across the table from her.

Besides DeVane's fingerprints, the lab had found a woman's DNA in blood and vaginal secretions inside the car, and Sylvester Norwood, a known car thief with a rap sheet full of petty crimes stretching back to puberty, had left his prints in numerous places as well.

"Hey, y'all, what's the sex police want with me? I'm just a car thief. I ain't raped nobody an' I don't mess with no li'l chillren."

"No, but the guy driving that Chevy Impala you stripped for parts in Harlem did and he does," Fin told him.

Casey took a sheaf of papers from her briefcase and dropped them on the table in front of the public defender who had been assigned to represent Norwood.

"You'll find everything is in order," she said. "If he gives us information leading directly to an arrest, he gets a walk. If he gives us a solid lead, he can plead out to a misdemeanor and get probation. It's already been approved by the DA."

The other attorney riffled through the pages, satisfying himself that everything was indeed as it should be, then asked, "What if he cooperates and you still come up empty?"

Casey wasn't playing games. Norwood was a nonviolent offender who had only ever committed property crimes. Hell, if he wanted her to take him out to lunch she'd do it on the chance that he might have information leading them to Roger DeVane.

"He gets brownie points for trying, and I'll talk to the judge and ask for leniency."

The public defender gave her an incredulous look and she nodded slightly. Turning to his client, the young man said, "I don't know what this guy did, but they want him bad. Tell them the truth, whatever they want to know. You'll never see a deal like this again."

"Yeah, I remember. Lazer blue metallic 2006 Impala SS, it's a 35,000 car. Something that sexy in that neighborhood was like a painted fingernail on a dirty hand."

"We're more interested in the guy who was drivin' it," Fin pointed out.

"He was a creep!" Norwood said. "He an' this little tart was shackin' up in the apartment below me. I guess she might have been a runaway 'cause she seemed pretty young, but he did her up to look like a little girl, so it was hard to tell."

"What do you mean, 'did her up'?" Fin asked, knowing he was not going to like the explanation.

"Made her wear pigtails, knee socks, an' a Catholic school uniform with a skirt so short you could see the stripes he laid across her ass the night before," Norwood said. "Man, I can understand a guy wantin' to pretend he was doin' a virgin every time, but you ain't supposed to hurt the woman you love, an' the way she was screamin'? I'm just glad they didn't stay long."

"So, it never occurred to you to call the police when he was beating her?" Casey asked.

Norwood shrugged. "Hell, some people are into that kind of stuff. I figure if she was old enough to leave home, she was old enough to leave him if she didn't like what he was doin' to her."

Fin and Casey shared a disgusted look realizing that, even if Norwood had understood how abused women felt trapped and needed help to leave an unhealthy relationship, he wouldn't have bothered to do anything. Even worse, if he had just made one call to the cops about the noise, they would already have DeVane in custody.

"Sounds like you know a lot about them for someone who had nothin' to do with them," Fin observed.

"He made her wear that getup in public," Norwood told him. "I saw her in the laundry room an' when she bent over to put somethin' in the dryer, I could tell she wasn't wearin' any panties."

"You say they didn't stay long," Fin reminded him. "When did they leave?"

"Not even a week after they got there. They had a hell of a fight one night. It sounded like he slapped her around pretty good. I heard some doors slam, an' that was it. When the car didn't move for a couple of days, well, heh-heh," Norwood flashed a grin that showed a platinum and diamond grill, probably bought with money made from selling stolen auto parts, "I did my thang."

"Would you recognize either of them if you saw them again?"

Norwood nodded. "Yeah, I think I would."

Fin showed him a photo array that included a shot of Annie Othmer. "Do you see the girl here?"

Norwood studied the pictures with concentration and finally shook his head. "Nope, she's not there."

Then he frowned. "What the hell is this?" he asked in a pissed off tone. "I tell you everythin' I know an' you don't give me a picture I can identify. Don't you think you can bail on your deal, man. I held up my end."

"We're not tryin' to bail," Fin told him. "We just needed to know if he was keepin' company with one of the women in that array. Now, do you see him in these pictures?"

Norwood studied the second photo array for about two seconds and thumped his finger down solidly on DeVane's picture. "That's the dude. She called him Rog."

Casey and Fin exchanged a look, and both nodded slightly.

"What apartment were they in?" Fin asked.

"I don't know," Norwood told him. "The floors ain't numbered the same, but they was right below me."

"All right, give me your address and we'll get someone to go into the building and find theirs." He handed a yellow legal pad across the table to Norwood and waited as he wrote.

"One-oh-seven West 146th, apartment 4D?" Fin read to make sure he understood the chicken scratch. "That's you?"

"Yeah, an' they were right down stairs."

He stood up and held the door for Casey. "You get started on the warrant. I'll call over to the three-two and ask them to have someone get the apartment number."

"Hey, what about me?" Norwood asked in agitation as they both walked out.

"We'll decide what to do with you once we see what's in that apartment," Fin said. "In the meantime, enjoy our hospitality."

"Can I at least get a sammich an' a cola while I wait?"

"Sure. I'll send a waitress right away," Fin muttered sarcastically as he pulled the door shut behind him.

_Stabler Residence  
72-12 Castleside Street  
Glen Oaks, Queens  
11:27 P.M., December 19, 2005_

"You doing all right?" Kathy asked when she came back down stairs from putting the kids to bed. They weren't children any more, but they were her children, and as long as they lived under her roof, she was going to tuck them in as often as possible, even Maureen.

"Yeah, fine," Elliot said, flipping channels on the remote.

She crouched down beside him, put her hand over his, and with the other hand, slipped the controller out of his grasp. "Elliot."

Somewhere along the line, it had become their routine that she would ask him how he was doing, he would give her a meaningless answer, and then she would press him for something honest. It always used to piss him off when she would do that, but since he had been seeing Rebecca Hendrix, for some reason it was easier for him to talk with Kathy.

Meeting her eyes, he said, "Lately I have been mostly ok, but these past few days have been really hard. I've been thinking a lot more about what he did to me. I guess it's just because . . . "

When he tailed off, she finished the thought for him, "Because yesterday was the one-month anniversary?"

"Yeah, and he's still out there and I'm still stuck here."

"You could go back to desk duty until you heal up, you know," Kathy suggested.

"No, I couldn't, not right now," he said. "I'm not . . . strong enough yet."

He didn't have to tell her he was still afraid. She'd known him all her life and she could see it in his eyes. Pulling him into a gentle hug, she said softly, "It'll get better."

She sat beside him on the couch, and he rested his head on her shoulder as they watched the "Jay Walking" segment of _The Tonight Show_.

"I can't believe these people are so stupid," he said when someone gave a typical response to one of the evening's simple trivia questions.

"It's filmed in L.A., what do you expect?" Kathy joked.

He looked at her in surprise and she smirked.

"That's cold, Kath," he commented with a small laugh.

She shrugged as if it were nothing, which it was, really. They watched and laughed together for a while, and then during a commercial, Elliot asked, "So, when are you going back to your mom's?"

There was a long moment of silence between them, and then she asked, "Do you want me to?"

"No . . . but I can take care of myself now," he said, remembering the original plan.

"I just thought it might be nice for the kids to stay through the holidays if that's all right," she told him.

"Sure, that's fine," he agreed. There was so much more he wanted to say, but it was too soon.

The show came back on and they were quiet until the next commercial break.

"Mike and Linda Sorenson have invited us to their New Year's Eve party. The kids, too," Kathy told him. "I need to RSVP by the end of the week. You know how Linda likes to plan ahead."

"You should go," he said. "I'm sure the kids will enjoy it. Didn't Kathleen used to have a crush on their son? What's his name?"

"Michael," Kathy said, "Michael, Jr., remember? And the invitation included you."

"I . . . I don't know," he said, holding up his left arm. The cast was gone, but the splint was just as bulky, and according to Teddy, he might have to wear it for another month or more. "They'll want to know about this. What will I tell them?"

"Tell them you got hurt at work," Kathy said simply.

"And when they ask how?" he countered tensely.

"Some guy caught you off guard and beat you up. Elliot, nobody's going to ask for the details," she explained, hitting the mute button as Leno came back on.

"I would," he countered.

"And do you think that's because of your job or because it happened to you?" she asked. When he didn't reply, she continued. "Sweetheart, people don't want to be reminded that you do a job that they don't have the stomach or the backbone to do themselves."

He dropped his gaze, and then a moment later looked up at her through his long, dark lashes, unconsciously seeking more reassurance.

"I know you probably feel as if people can look at you and see what happened," she said, "but, Baby, they can't. Nobody will know unless you tell them, but if you stop living your life, then they will all know it was something terrible, and then they will start to speculate."

"What if I have a panic attack?" he asked. "I haven't been around that many people in a long, long time."

Kathy gave it some thought.

"You can take a Valium before we leave if you feel you need one," she said, "and I'll stay close while we're there. If it gets to be too much for you, tell me you forgot your medication and we'll go home."

"What medication?" Elliot asked in confusion.

"If anybody asks, we'll tell them you're on pain meds for your busted hand. Nobody's gonna know whether it hurts or not."

He was quiet for a few moments, and then asked, "What if they ask us about the separation? What will we tell them?"

"I think it would be best if we had the same answer to that," Kathy said. "I'm thinking the closer to the truth we stay, the better. Maybe, I came home when you were hurt so I could help you until you could take care of yourself. Now I'm staying through the holidays for the kids' benefit, and we haven't discussed anything beyond that."

"And if they want more details?"

"It's none of their business, Elliot," she insisted, "and if they're going to be rude by prying, I think we have every right to tell them to butt out."

Elliot grew thoughtful. He had to admit, the thought of going out and having a good time with his wife and kids was tempting. It had been a very long time since he'd had the opportunity to do that.

Slowly, he nodded. "Ok," he said, "I might not be able to stay for long, but let's try it."

Kathy nestled beside him again and turned on the sound on the TV. Some young new comic was doing a routine for Leno, hoping to make a name for himself. She heard Elliot's soft snort of laughter at one of the kid's jokes and smiled. He was taking baby steps, but he was walking in the right direction. She could only hope that he would let her make the journey with him.

* * *

Sorry for the hiatus. I hit a major writer's block on this story. I'm still working about 10 chapters ahead, but I really needed to sort things out there because some of the things in this chapter wouldn't be consistent with that timeline unless I fixed them first. Then I got distracted by another story idea for which I have already written over 25 chapters. Seriously, I have a shorter attention span than a hyperactive chihuahua. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and please review. Jo


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